How Far We've Come
by AndSoIWrite
Summary: It took a tragedy to shatter the Winchester family and it will take another one to put them back together. Pre-series.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Just testing this one out. If you guys are interested, it will be about two or three more chapters. If not, I'll just take it down and go on my merry way :)

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To be honest, John had never considered this. He never considered that he would be sitting here, head dipping into his hands, those hands that were too callused, too scarred to be normal. As if any part of John could be considered normal. But here he was, on this plastic chair that was sunk in from use, this chair with a back that curved inwards as if it could offer him support in this moment of need. His body tilted forward, folding in on itself to stray away from any inch of comfort because it wasn't in his nature to want.

John Winchester did not like to need.

He had needed his wife. His wife with her soft voice but tough personality, the I-don't take-any-shit attitude she flashed outward without resignation. The first time he tried to talk to her she turned and walked away and that was the moment he fell in love with the set of her shoulders, the curl of her hair as it bounced in her wake, her own quiet _fuck you _to the ex-marine who chased after her from day one. Before all that needing had left him bled dry and empty and wanting nothing more than bones snapping under his hands, John had been the gentle one, the who would murmur in Mary's ear as her eyes grew bright with a fire she stored somewhere deep in her. His teasing, his words flowing like a lullaby in her most heated moments, his voice had led her away from a cliff she liked to wander by. He didn't know in those days it was the same cliff he would throw himself off, a child tucked beneath each arm. He was still falling, here, now. Falling, falling, and all these years later John was just starting to see the bottom of the pit, just starting to think maybe jumping hadn't been such a great idea.

Her absence tore through him like shrapnel, always present and throbbing until he learned that if he couldn't escape it, he would embrace it and stoke it like a fire, feeding it. Even in death, Mary drove him forward, always running; she would be there whispering at his back in each dark motel room. _Go. Fight. Kill. _

But now John was left sitting on this goddamn chair and Mary's voice wasn't even an echo and all he could hear was a silence in his head that told him he had finally fucked up beyond repair. Three seats down was a woman with hair the color of the moon and her head was bent over folded hands that sat beneath her chin. Her lips moved but there was no one around and John watched out of restlessness, out of the simple need to devote his attention somewhere so he didn't go insane in these precious minutes.

What was she doing?

Her torso rocked back and forth and then her eyes closed and John thought perhaps he should alert a nurse because this was not normal behavior at all, he knew that. But then those fists parted and out dangled a necklace. No, not a necklace: a rosary.

The old woman was praying.

John thought about sliding down until he was next to her and putting an arm around those thin shoulders and telling her sorry but praying doesn't do any good. It won't keep you safe. Nothing can keep you safe. John would know about survival; he was an ex-marine after all. That and the trunk of his car was loaded with an arsenal that would make any soldier drool with envy. In those days after they fire, John had prayed. Prayed with his eyes open, eyes closed, on his knees, laying face-up on a bed. He had prayed in English, had looked up Latin prayers. He had even gone to church. Of course, there was no answer; Mary was still dead and gone and John was creeping closer to that cliff.

The old woman's head snapped up and over and then she was watching John just as much as he was watching her and even after all he'd seen, he still flinched as her eyes roamed over his face, taking in his paleness and bloodshot eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said and her voice was high and lilting, almost musical.

"For what?" John said stupidly because after all, he had been the one staring and yet her tone was so apologetic it made him want to cry for some reason. It had been years since he cried. Over a decade.

"For your suffering." No one had ever apologized for that before. No one had ever taken responsibility for the weight that the Hunter carried over his shoulders, the weight he dragged with him not because he was chained to it but because he refused to let it go. This weight, this suffering was comfortable and familiar and John's nature depended on this handicap. Without his suffering, there was nothing to define him.

"My son," he croaked out even though she hadn't asked. He waved one of those scarred hands at the doors in front of them. She nodded and stood, walking over to him and then taking a seat. Her closeness was uncomfortable; John didn't like other people, didn't like people in general. Her hands were small and withered, more supernatural than anything else he'd seen so far in this hospital. But she was just a woman, just a human.

"I'll pray for him," the woman said and John nodded because what else was he supposed to do? In all fairness, Dean deserved to have someone praying for him. Hell, the kid deserved to have a hundred, a thousand people praying for him.

"Mr. Winchester?" A man in a white coat was standing in front of John and the old lady, wearing a stethoscope around his neck and bad news on his face. John tilted his head upwards, eyes catching on the fluorescent lights before sliding over to settle on this face that was about to shatter his world. "If you follow me, I can tell you about Dean's condition." All of a sudden, John didn't want to leave this chair and an absurd feeling of hesitation washed over him. It would be so much easier to stay here in this hallway with this strange but kind lady. For all the people John had met, it was her he chose to latch onto, like a child with a favorite blanket.

"Go ahead with the doctor now," the woman said, patting his arm, allowing her fingers to linger as if he could leech warmth from her touch. "I'll be here praying for your boy."

He went.

They sat in an office that was decorated with certificates and plaques and John wanted to point out the absolute insanity of living in a world where success was measured in pieces of paper and planks of wood. But he kept quiet and let the doctor explain to him why the last untarnished part of his soul was about to go up in flames.

"Your son, Dean, was badly injured as you know. The animal that got him – you said a mountain lion – tore into some of his vital organs. There was a massive amount of blood loss and his heart stopped three times during surgery. We managed to resuscitate him but his heart is weakened and damaged, Mr. Winchester. There's reason to believe the amount of blood loss and lack of oxygen caused moderate to severe brain damage. He's also not breathing on his own."

John wasn't breathing too well himself.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Winchester, but I encourage you to get in contact with whatever family that would like a chance to say goodbye."

John's chest shrunk until his heart was demanding more room, pounding loudly on his ribcage in protest. He couldn't feel them but his fingers were clenched into fists as his eyes roamed over the doctor's face, wondering whether it would make him feel better to kill him right there. Because John was _angry._ Seething. A molten rage was ripping it's way through his body, bubbling inside him until it erupted and soared into words.

"What did you say?" The words had sounded louder in his head but as they fell from his lips, they were just a whisper, the battle contained inside John for the time being. His insides writhed.

"The chances of Dean pulling through are set at about two percent."

His child was a number. Dean, the carefree, uninhibited man-who-was-really-still-a-boy, who smiled with a quirk of his lips and laughed with his eyes had been reduced to a statistic.

"I don't believe you." The white coat lifted and fell in a sigh and John's vision was filtering in red every time he blinked. He was standing now, somehow had gotten to his feet even though the doctor was just sitting there, not even trying to explain, trying to help. John's son was somewhere back there in the belly of the monster and all this jackass could do was sit there with a grimace and a fucking clipboard. How dare he.

"Mr. Winchester, do you need to call someone before I take you to Dean?"

"No," John snapped. _Don't talk to me, _he wanted to say, wanted to roar. How satisfying this room would look if all those frames and plagues were splintered into fragments. John lived in a dog eat dog world and this man had just shattered his life. That meant it was John's turn to do some damage. The doctor frowned, disbelief coloring his face like a little kid with crayons.

"No mother, no grandparents? No siblings?"

_Sam._

John was a monster, this night proved it, but he was not going to let his son leave this world without giving his younger brother a chance to say goodbye. So he focused long enough to growl out a word.

"One."

The doctor left him in the office with a phone, keeping the door open just in crack. John stared around the office in bewilderment, not letting himself sink too deeply into his thoughts because if he did, he would crumble into dust and there would be nothing left to put back together. So he palmed the phone, letting the weight sink into hands as if it were a weapon and not a piece of wire and cheap plastic.

And John Winchester made the hardest phone call of his life.

xxx

It was two in the morning on the California coast and even worse, it was a Tuesday so Sam wasn't awake, hadn't even just fallen asleep, because he had a exam in his International Sustainability class at eight. Jess, the angel of a girl he had fallen in love with two years before was curled at his side, one leg thrown carelessly over his knees in sleep. It was her who answered Sam's phone because he always slept with it under his pillow, some habit he brought with him from a childhood he refused to talk about. The phone vibrated under her ear and without thinking she pulled it out and without opening her eyes, mumbled,

"'lo?" She almost hung up on the silence that came from the other end but a gruff voice came at the last second. A voice that sounded like it was choking.

"Sam?" Jess pushed her palm into Sam's back, jostling him.

"Babe, get up." Sam liked to sleep and didn't like to wake up so all he did was roll over and hug a pillow to his chest. Jess was on her knees now, the phone forgotten on the sheets and used both hands and her voice to bring him out of the dream world. "Sam. Your phone rang." He reached out a hand and she slapped the phone into it, curling over his shoulder and peering at him curiously as the voice on the other end spoke again and then Sam's eyes flew open. He sat up, throwing her back to her side of the bed and his legs swung over the side of bed; he was bent at the waist as if he was going to throw up.

"I told you not to call," Sam said, well snarled was more like it, Jessica thought. She watched the muscles in his neck twitch and tighten, his shoulders becoming a wall to keep her out. "You can't call me every time he gets himself into trouble." The baritone words coming from the phone floated back to her but she couldn't distinguish, could only tell that they were getting louder. Someone was yelling. Sam took it, listened for a long while with the phone pressed against his ear, not once glancing at her. After a few minutes, his body tilted backward as he drew in a deep breath and his hair fell to one side as he cocked his head.

"How bad?" Then the phone was snapping shut and Sam was pulling on the jeans that lay discarded on the floor.

"Sam, what happened?" She stood, pulling on her own clothes because even if it was California, it was cold in this apartment. Cold because heat cost extra money and if there was one thing Sam didn't have, it was that. "Is everything okay?" He still hadn't looked at her; those hazel eyes were roaming the room for something and even in the dark, he found it. Textbooks and paper and bits of pencils poured onto their bed as he emptied the backpack and started shoving clothes into it. That's when Jess started to panic.

"What happened?" she repeated, flicking on the light.

"My brother's hurt," Sam said.

"Dean?" His nod was nothing more than a dip of his chin. She was impressed. Since she'd known him, Sam had left like this five times, tonight making six, always claiming that his older brother – who Jess had never met – was injured or sick and Sam had to go to him. It was sweet, she thought at first, that Sam would go take care of him. But Dean seemed to be in trouble a lot.

"Again?" she asked because the words forced themselves out past the barrier in her brain that was telling her to shut up. Those hazel eyes found her then and if it had been anyone else, anyone else besides her Sam, she would have been frightened. They were searing with something unintelligible, some crusade of the heart and soul. He flashed his armor at her.

"I'll be back," was the only thing he said as he flung the backpack over one shoulder, slipped the phone into his pocket, grabbed the wallet from the bedside table.

"You don't have to go you know," she said quietly because he did all this as if he had no other choice. He always left angry when it was about Dean and would come back even more upset, so upset that it took Jess a week or two before she could calm him down enough to forget about whatever he'd just been through. She resented Dean for that. For taking away her sweet boyfriend and turning him into a lost human being that flailed high on a tightrope until she could convince him it was safe to get down.

"I do," Sam said and there was nothing apologetic in his tone. "But it will be the last time."

"What do you mean?"

"He's dying."

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**A/N**: What do you think? Want more? Or should I banish it to my computer files forever? Let me know!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Okay, you guys said you wanted more so here it is! Thanks for all the interest in this story. I love writing the boys when they are around these ages (early twenties). Heads up: nothing gets too graphic with Dean's injuries but there are descriptions in this chapter so if that's not your thing, I'm letting you know now. All medical stuff is a mix of looking things up online, personal experience, and completely making it up to suit my needs.

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Sam's car was a maroon '88 Oldsmobile that didn't have heat or air conditioning and played about two radio stations at any given moment. He'd picked the pile of junk up at a dealership that looked more like a scrapyard and he drove it the forty-five minutes home only to have it crap out on him in the parking lot of his apartment building. But John had spent nearly as much time teaching the boys about cars as he had about weapons and though mechanics wasn't Sam's favorite pastime, he knew enough to keep the car alive. It was all his and he appreciated that. Usually he liked riding around in it, letting the windows down so the California heat could gust in. Like the Impala he'd grown up in, it took cassette tapes and Sam's own collection was tucked under the passenger seat. Jess liked to tease him but there was something nostalgic about slipping in some rock music and banging his head around like an idiot. Usually, the car made Sam feel free.

Today, it felt like a prison.

John had said that he was at a hospital in Northern Arizona and when Sam glanced at a map spread out on the steering wheel, he figured the drive wouldn't take any longer than four, maybe four and a half hours. Still, it was four and a half hours to let the terror creep in it until it was wrapped tight around him like a straitjacket.

He'd seen Dean in some pretty messed up situations, more than enough in the last two years alone. One time he had mangled his elbow so badly on a hunt that it took two surgeries and eight days in the hospital before Sam could bring him back to a motel room and take care of him there. Internal bleeding from another hunt had forced the doctor to take out the middle Winchester's spleen and just two months after that, Sam found himself driving back to Utah when Dean was admitted to the hospital with a burst appendix. He didn't remember anything like this happening when they were small. Sure, they got some bumps and bruises and of course the occasional flu and one time Sam had gotten pneumonia pretty bad but they were always watching each other's back. Even Sam, four years younger, was aware that Dean was a responsibility he wasn't allowed to slack on.

That's why Sam hated John.

The minute he left for Stanford was the minute he started getting these calls, usually in the middle of the night but not always. These calls that led to Sam jumping on a bus or a train and later the car and trying to keep his head from exploding with worry and anger before he could get to his brother. He'd only seen his father once since he left and they hadn't even spoken; last year as Sam was pulling into the hospital parking lot, the Impala was pulling out and the two men had locked eyes for just a moment. Time had slowed like it did in the movies when the enemies finally got a glance of each other. Then John floored it and the Impala whipped onto the road and out of sight.

That's how it worked. He called Sam to come take care of his brother and then he left, disappeared into the horizon like some twisted ending of a cowboy movie. The one where the hero is too good to stick around. With Dean injured or sick, John would be slowed down, unable to trek the supernatural depths at the speed he preferred – breakneck. So he phoned Sam and, knowing the younger brother would show up, fled the scene.

Which is why when Sam walked into the lobby of St. Joe's Hospital and John Winchester was waiting at the doors, adrenaline shot through Sam's veins like heroin, igniting him with a match that had been burning for well over two years.

"What did you do?" Sam asked, getting to close to his father's face, the face that if Sam had been paying attention would have noticed was drawn in and gray, shadowed with grief. But Sam was shaking, his whole body on fire from the anger that spilled out of him into the air. Dean was hurt and the bastard standing in front of him was to blame. If it had been anyone else, _anyone_, Sam would have killed them then and there, maybe with his bare hands.

"Sam, please," John said, his voice little more than a croak. Not the voice of an ex-marine that had yelled at Sam more times than it had said "I love you" or tucked him in at night with a bedtime story.

"This is _your_ fault," Sam continued, prodding a finger into John's chest and the man stumbled backwards. A nurse hurried over and placed a hand on Sam's arm, the one that was still raised toward his father.

"Sir, please calm down or we'll have to call security." Sam snapped his head around to look at her to tell her to back off and let him fight, let him do what he'd been trained to do, but before he could open his mouth, she was talking again. "Are you here to see a family member? A friend?" Sam gaped at her, unable to process what the hell she was talking about because he just wanted to get back to slamming his father up against the hospital wall and beating the crap out of him.

"His brother," John murmured. "His brother is in the ICU."

"What's the name?" the nurse said, keeping a restraining hand on Sam. "I can take you up there but only if you calm down."

"Dean Winchester," John supplied when Sam refused to speak. If he couldn't beat his father, than he would ignore him, pretend he never existed in the first place. It wasn't great but Sam had learned to live with compromises. "This is his brother Sam."

"Alright, Sam. Let's go see Dean." John stayed put, knowing there was no reason for him to follow the two that were already turning away. Sam would do better without him in the room, that much was obvious. The youngest Winchester turned his head just once to send a scathing glare back at John, who took it with as much grace as he could muster, doing nothing. Now was not the time to fight, he knew that. And once Sam took a look at his brother, he would see it too. At least, that's what John hoped.

The nurse led Sam to an elevator that carried them up four floors and then through a maze of hallways that Sam couldn't find his way out of if he tried. They stopped when they hit a pair of double doors at what seemed like the very back of the hospital. It was quiet here and seemed darker too although the fluorescent lights shone just as brightly. There were no patients moaning in distress, no murmur of concerned family members. Just the throbbing near-silence that unsettled Sam.

"Scrub up," the nurse instructed. "And put these on." She handed him a pair of hospital scrubs complete with little blue booties that he doubted would stretch over his gigantic feet but he did took them anyway and she disappeared through the doors. Sam was nervous. Never in all his time in hospitals had he seen Dean in the Intensive Care Unit. That's where people went to die. That particular thought struck Sam with enough force that he had to pause in the washing of his hands and lean over the basin, his lungs trying to suck in the right amount of air.

_"I told you not to call me," Sam said._

_ "I know," John told him. "And I haven't for a while. He's been real good. He's gotten so good at Hunting. But there was a problem last night."_

_ "You can't call me every time he gets himself into trouble."_

_ "I don't. But this time it's – it's not good. The doctors are saying it's pretty bad."_

_ "How bad?" There was a pause then,_

_ "They want you to come say goodbye. They say he's not going to make it."_

"Sam Winchester?" The nurse who had left him came back accompanied by a doctor, a tall, lean man with a head of graying hair and a face that could have been considered kind if it wasn't his job to facilitate death's wishes. "I'm Dr. Aaron Cantwell and I was here when your brother was brought in. I performed the surgery on him also."

Sam stared.

"I'm going to let you in to see Dean but I want you to listen to me first so I can explain a few things. Are you with me?" When Sam didn't say anything, glancing behind the doctor to the door that blocked him from Dean, the doctor spoke again. Louder, firmer. "Sam? You need to focus. Right here." He was waving a hand in front of Sam's face and Sam's eyes followed it like a pendulum on a grandfather clock. Then he nodded.

"I am going to tell you what I told your father a little while ago. Dean was attacked by a mountain lion –"

_Good one, Dad._

"And the animal managed to do damage to many of Dean's organs, including his lungs, intestines and liver. Because of the severity of the injuries, his heart was put under copious amounts of stress and it stopped twice on the operating table, resulting in significant damage to the organ." The thought of Dean's insides laid out on a cold operating table jerked something behind Sam's navel and he turned from the doctor to throw up in the sink he had just washed his hands in. The nurse hurried to his side and rubbed his back as he wretched as if he were a small child. He leaned against the counter, panting heavily and watching as a string of drool create a gooey bridge from his lips to the steel sink then snapped. The nurse handed him a towel.

"Anything else?" he rasped, still huddled over the sink, the words scraping up bile along with them as they came out and he spit into the sink and wiped his mouth again. Raised a Hunter, Sam had never had weak stomach. He could handle blood, gore, decapitations, had sewed up his fair share of gashes and stab wounds. But apparently he couldn't handle this.

"Do you need to take some time?" Dr. Cantwell said. Sam shook his head and turned back around.

"I'm fine. What else about Dean?" Dr. Cantwell hesitated then went on.

"There was restricted blood and oxygen flow to the brain causing damage there as well."

"So he's brain dead?"

"No. He's not even in a full coma, there are times – infrequent happenings – where he will appear to wake up."

"That's a good thing, right?"

"Sam, I don't want you getting any illusions about your brother's health. His brain activity is decreasing slowly, he's not breathing on his own. If he were to somehow miraculously pull through, there would most likely be severe brain damage. We asked your father to get ahold of you so you could say your goodbyes."

Sam hadn't said goodbye the night he left for Stanford. He'd gotten into a screaming match with John while Dean watched from the edge of the room, looking more nervous than Sam had ever seen him. Sam's stuff had been packed for days, hidden under the motel bed, and when he picked up the backpack and duffel bag, he hadn't looked back when John told him to get the hell out. He'd tried to call a few times in the months that followed but that was before cell phones and it was hard to track the two Winchesters down long enough for them to get the message and after never hearing back, Sam stopped trying.

Was this God's twisted way of trying to get him to say goodbye? To let him know you can't just walk out on your family without repercussions? Without punishment? Because the longer he thought about it – and he hadn't stopped thinking since he picked up the phone – Sam was pretty damn sure this was his fault. If he'd never left, Dean would be happy and alive and not laying in some hospital bed waiting to rot.

_One hell of a punishment, _Sam thought miserably.

"Would you like to see your brother now?" Dr. Cantwell asked, his voice losing the prickling authority from before.

The nurse detached herself from Sam's side and left back the way she came from as Sam went in the opposite direction, following white coattails and dragging behind him a heavy conscience. The ICU was set up differently from the rest of the hospital with each patient commanding their own cubicle instead of a room, the beds set up in a circle around the nurse's station. Dean's bed was to the left and the doctor stopped at the curtain barricading them from Dean.

"Remember that if he wakes up, you have to remain calm, for his sake. He won't know what's going on and even if he can't see or hear you, he's still capable of picking up the emotions around him."

"Okay," Sam said, palms itching at being so close and yet unable to reach his brother. The doctor seemed to understand because he placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, pulled the curtain back and left.

Sam's first thought was that he was at the wrong bed. Because this couldn't be Dean. This utterly still, hooked up to more machines than Sam had ever seen, barely breathing, pale ghost of a body could not possibly be his brother. His brother was always moving, jostling his six-foot-one body in a way that had convinced Sam that Dean suffered from ADHD to some degree. His knee was always bouncing, his fingers scraping through a thick tuft of brown hair, eyes lighting up at the mention of food or a bad joke. That was Dean. This was not.

It took several seconds for Sam to take a step forward and when he did, he stumbled over locked knees. The bed was slightly propped up and Dean was cushioned by two pillows underneath him. The color of his skin was that of uncooked rice and when Sam sat and reached out a hesitant hand to his brother's own, his fingers wrapped around icy flesh. That's what knocked Sam out of whatever daze he was in – the deadly feeling of his brother's cold skin under his.

"You a little cold, buddy?" Sam said, almost choking on the words but it was either talk or start crying and Sam did not want to cry, not even a little bit. "Let's see if we can get you another blanket, how about that?" He rummaged in the drawers under the bed, producing another ratty but warm looking blanket and spread it out over Dean's unmoving figure. "That's better, isn't it?" Sam said, his eyes roaming over his older brother, taking in every inch.

One side of Dean's face was scraped up as if he'd been dragged over some sort of rough surface, but those particular injuries were overshadowed by the large ventilator tube that ran from a machine next to Sam down Dean's throat. It hissed every few seconds, pumping air into Dean's lungs and causing his brother's chest to expand then deflate, like someone blowing up a balloon then letting the air out.

There was another tube snaking up Dean's nose, taped into place on his cheek and Sam knew from experience it was most likely a feeding tube, another sign that the doctors had little to no hope of Dean waking up. It took Sam a moment to realize his brother wasn't in one of those flimsy hospital gowns because even though the blankets were pulled up far, the length of his arms remained exposed. Which was weird to look at because they were so unlike the rest of him. Besides the two IVs attached to the arm closest to Sam, the Hunter's upper limbs seem to have escaped injury. Years of slicing through bone, of wielding heavy guns and knives, and of mornings spent on ruthless training, Dean's arms were corded with thick muscle and looked horribly out of place next to the rest of his now frail looking body.

"That's probably why you're cold," Sam mumbled but when his eyes drifted further down his brother's body, he saw why Dean had been left so stripped. The edges of a mound of bandages stuck out from beneath the blankets and when Sam pulled them back, he nearly moaned at the sight. Almost the entirety of Dean's torso was covered in a swath of bandages with wires and even more tubes sprouting from underneath. He could tell exactly where the surgery site was because a good amount of blood had stained through the white cloth.

"Dean," Sam whispered. "What did Dad do to you?" His only answer was the unrelenting hiss and pull of the ventilator accompanied by at least three other machines sending out beeps and blips. At least his brother had the dignity of wearing pants, even if they were the thin hospital kind, not unlike the ones Sam had pulled on over his jeans. The youngest Winchester put the blankets back in place, trying to cover up as much of the bandaging as possible.

He picked up Dean's hand and, being careful not to jostle the needles in it, started rubbing warmth back into the clammy skin.

"I'm here, Dean," Sam said, not caring that his brother was probably far away from this world right now and Sam's presence meant nothing. "I came right when Dad called, like always. I wasn't about to leave you alone in this place." He glanced around the room. "Although, I have to say I'm impressed you've managed to get yourself a private room this time. Nobody bitching next to you or anything. You'd like it." Sam watched his brother's face for any sign of recognition or that Dean was listening but there was nothing. He sighed loudly, Dean's hair stirring slightly as Sam's breath rushed over him.

"You're Sam, right?" He jolted at the sound of his name, dropping Dean's hand as if he'd been caught sneaking cookies before dinner. A nurse wearing pink and purple scrubs was standing at the entrance of the cubicle. "Your Dad told me you would be coming," she said to his confused expression. "I'm Angelica, Dean's nurse. But you can call me Angie." She moved into the room, making adjustments here and there on the machines and then pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked, bristling at the thought of someone laying their hands on Dean. Clearly they hadn't been able to help him much so Sam didn't see why they had to keep coming around, messing things up even more. He just wanted to be alone with his brother.

"I have to change the dressing," she said, gesturing to Dean's torso. "But he still has another half an hour until more pain medication so you might have to help. You game?"

"What?" Sam said stupidly, thrown off by her casual tone, the calmness of her words.

"Dean here gets a little fussy when we change his bandages," Angie said, her voice picking up a slight sing-song lilt as she addressed the Winchester lying in bed. "Don't you, Dean? No, he does not like it one bit." She pulled back the blankets and started removing the old bandages, letting them fall to her feet in a pile. The gauzy material came apart easily and drifted to the floor like feathers, like she was simply plucking a swan.

"I don't blame him," she said. "If I had someone prodding and poking at me, I would put up a bit of a fight too." To prove her point, she tilted her head toward Dean's face and Sam almost gasped when he saw that Dean's brow was knitted together slightly, forming a crease in his forehead.

"Is he waking up?" he asked. Angie glanced at him and shook her head.

"Probably not. He's just showing us how unhappy he is. Look," she said, this time pointing to the hand nearest Sam. Moments ago it had been open and relaxed at his side and now it was curled into a loose fist. A quiet gurgling noise came from Dean's throat and Sam instinctively moved closer to his brother, leaning in.

"You're hurting him," he accused the nurse who looked at him with sad eyes.

"You can help him, Sam," she said as Dean made that noise again – that terrible, wet-sounding noise – louder this time.

"How?" he asked, almost pleading.

"Just talk to him and let him know you're here. Hold his hand."

"The doctor said he couldn't hear me." Angie stopped what she was doing and looked over Dean's body at him.

"Your brother has been critically injured," she said, "And he might not be able to tell us how he feels with words but you are his family and if there is a chance he could draw comfort from that, you are obliged to give it to him. Right? I know that when I talk to him, it seems to help a bit, doesn't it Dean?" she said softly. "So imagine what his brother could do."

She didn't know. She didn't know that Sam had walked out on Dean, had only walked back into his life those few times when there had been no one else to take care of him. Once upon a time the brothers may have been close but Sam doubted that Dean even wanted him here. Then again, if this was it, if this really was the last chance Sam got to spend with his brother, he wanted it to mean something.

"Okay," he said. "You're right." Angie nodded and went back to work. Sam took Dean's fisted fingers and pried them open and started massaging them, feeling the muscles contract and twitch under his.

"I'm right here, Dean," he said in a low voice, bending so close to his brother he could smell the antiseptic scent wafting off of him. "It's Sam and I came back to be with you." All the bandages were off now and Angie was cleaning the wounds, humming as she worked.

"It's the worst part," she said, flicking her eyes to the heart monitor, which had quickened it's constant beeping. "I know, Dean. I'll go quickly." When Dean's brow knitted further, creating a V-shape and the noises coming from his throat strengthened, Sam slipped his other hand into Dean's hair, stroking gently. It was something Dean had done for him as a child as a way to help Sam fall asleep.

"It's okay," he soothed. "I know it hurts but you're doing such a good job." He hesitated then said, "If Mom could see you, she would be so proud, Dean. I really think she would. And you know what? I think Dad's proud of you too. He might not tell you that but deep down he's probably relieved that you've always been at his side." The gentle but earnest cadence of Sam's voice seemed to have an effect, pacifying Dean as Angie continued to work. The choking noises stopped and Sam swore Dean turned his head a fraction of an inch toward him.

"And when you get better," Sam said, feeling the nurse glance at him, "I'm going to be right here. I won't leave again. I'll come back on the road with you or you can come to California and live with me." Sam made the mistake of turning his head down to where Angie's hands were rubbing some kind of glistening cream over Dean's wounds and immediately wished he hadn't.

Whatever they had been hunting – Sam had forgotten to ask John in the brief minute they'd been in the same room – had sliced through Dean, cutting his skin into ribbons. His stomach was a mess of stitches, lines crisscrossing over each other to create a crosshatch effect. The longest stretch of stitches– too straight and even to be from the creature – ran from the bottom of Dean's sternum to just above his belly button: the place where the surgeons had made their own mark. Many of the wounds were bleeding freely through the stitches, the blood oozing out to mix with the clear cream Angie was using. She had done her best to wash him off but the blood still seeping out plus the medicine created a pink paste over his body.

The wounds were puffy and red, swelled to little ridges and Sam's mind flashed back to elementary where the teacher kept a 3-D globe in the room, one of the kinds that showed mountain ranges by a series of raised bumps. Dean's body looked like a map of the Swiss Alps. And Sam was suddenly desperately relieved Dean was not awake because if he were it would ten times more awful. For the first time, Sam understood what the doctor had been saying; now that he'd seen it with his own eyes he could comprehend the fact that no one could survive this time of physical brutality.

He must have made some type of noise because Angie whipped her head around, eyes narrowed.

"Take a deep breath, Sam," she instructed. He didn't even realize how shallow his breathing had gotten until she said it again and as he inhaled, the edges of his vision went from blurry back to clear.

"I can't – can't-" He stuttered like a fool but he just couldn't imagine how Dean was even still alive.

"You just focus on keeping your brother calm," Angie said. "Let me handle down here. Go on," she said. "He needs you right now." As if agreeing, Dean's body jerked under her touch as she set to work on the surgery scar.

"Last one, Dean," she said cheerfully. "You've done so well, kiddo. After we get this all cleaned up, I'll get you some more pain meds." Sam struggled to think about what he'd been saying…

"You'd like Jess," he told his brother, voice a little shaky but it grew firmer as he kept talking. "She's just perfect, Dean. I don't know how I got so lucky. Don't know what she sees in me. But I'm sure glad she sees something because I can't imagine life without her." He skimmed his fingertips across Dean's brow, avoiding the electrodes that were in place to measure brain activity. Sam didn't even want to know how to read that machine, couldn't bear the thought of being able to watch his brother physically slip away with every hour. At least this way, Sam could pretend Dean was going to wake up.

"All done," Angie said, covering Dean back up and throwing the dirty supplies into the garbage before washing her hands. She reached for a syringe that had been sitting on the counter and uncapped it before sticking it into Dean's IV. "This should get your heart rate back to normal…Yep, there it goes." She ran a hand over Dean's hair in a comforting gesture; Sam noticed she had little yellow butterflies painted on her nails.

"I'll be right outside," she told him. "It's my lucky double shift day so I'm here all through today and tonight. If you need me for anything, let me know."

"Thanks," Sam said. She pulled the curtain back around them so the two brothers were left alone.

"Dad's downstairs," Sam said a while later. "At least I think he is. If he took off again, I'll kill him." Sam sighed, face softening. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. But I don't understand how he could of let this happen. You were the one thing he had left to protect and he just…doesn't care." Sam buried his face in his hands, scrubbing hard at his skin, pulling at the roots of his long hair.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he said quietly through his fingers, shaking his head. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there to help you. I never should have left."

Sam rested his chin on top of his hands and sat there trying not blink, trying not to miss anymore than he already had.

* * *

**A/N: **Don't forget to tell me what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **I know I said this story was only going to be a few chapters long but I've grown kinda attached to it and have taken it in an entirely different direction than I first planned on. So expect it to be around for a while as John and Sam work through their problems and to see if Dean has enough fight left in him to survive.

* * *

John Winchester dragged his feet through the hospital as he made his way somewhat reluctantly back to the ICU. He wanted nothing more than to be beside Dean but Sam was another story. The kid – not really a kid anymore, John reminded himself – was furious with him. As he should be. John had expected a punch straight to the jaw and was surprised when Sam restrained himself to just pushing him around before that nurse had taken him to see Dean.

He labored over putting on the scrubs that sat waiting for him, toying with the strings on the pants and washing his hands under scalding water until the skin up to his elbows had turned bright red. Just past those doors were his two sons together again, but under circumstances John had never foreseen. Never thought he'd have to worry about for some reason that escaped him now. But he was sure he'd had a good one when he'd sent Dean out alone yesterday.

The nurse assigned to Dean – he couldn't remember her name – nodded at him when he walked past her on his way to the boys but didn't stop him.

Sam was sitting in the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, chin rested in his palms, and he didn't notice his father staring through the gap in the curtain. John took the opportunity to study his youngest in a way he hadn't in years. Hell, he hadn't talked to Sam other than a couple times on the phone since the kid left three years ago. He was twenty now, more man than boy; he had slipped into adulthood without John and for some reason that unsettled the Hunter. He had half-expected Sam to be the same smart-alec teenager he was when he left, but that wasn't the case. John was sorry he had thrown Sam out, was sorry the hour after it happened, but the lingering anger and betrayal of his son leaving had kept him from reaching out.

"Hey," he said quietly, walking in. Sam's head jerked up then turned away when he saw it was only John, jaw already clenched at the sight of his father. "How is he?" Sam shrugged, going back to watching Dean, who looked the same as when John had left a couple hours ago. "Has the doctor been in?"

"No," Sam said. "Just the nurse. She had to change his bandages." John winced, going around the bed to stand at Dean's other side. "What was it?" Sam asked flatly, looking his father in the eye for the first time.

"A Rakshasa," John said, squaring his shoulders against the onslaught of hatred coming from his youngest son. But after a moment of glaring, Sam lowered his eyes back to his brother, shoulders slumped from grief and exhaustion. He couldn't fight with his father, not right now. He just didn't have it in him.

"Sam, I'm sorry."

"For what?" It was a challenge.

"Everything," John said.

"That doesn't change things, Dad," Sam said and it was a relief to hear that word come out his lips; John was worried he would never hear it again. "You can be sorry all you want but that doesn't change the fact you threw me out of the family and then ignored me for three years. And it doesn't change the fact that Dean is dying." His father flinched at the last word but nodded.

"I know. I just wanted to tell you."

_Because I didn't get to tell Dean, _he thought, looking down at his oldest. He seemed paler than before, pale except for two flushed spots starting to appear on his cheeks. He'd have to alert the nurse to that.

The two sat together in uncomfortable silence for a long time, Sam in the chair and John eventually settling on the floor with his back against the cabinets. Sam had nothing to say to his father, nothing he could say without completely flipping out and causing a scene. He'd wait until later. Before his father walked in, he'd been talking to Dean about whatever nonsense popped into his head, mostly retelling stories of old hunts they'd gone as teenagers or pranks they had pulled on Bobby as children, including the time they had spray-painted his dog with hot pink stripes. That one had been Dean's brainchild and after Sam made sure the paint was non-toxic, he'd gone along without hesitation, eager for anything that would interrupt the seriousness of their lives. But now that John was here, Sam felt uneasy opening his mouth at all so he just sat in the quiet.

Angie came in a while later, nodding again at John and then putting a hand briefly on Sam's shoulder before she bustled around Dean.

"The doctor's going to be in soon," she told them. "I'll see if I can get you another chair, Mr. Winchester."

"You can call me John," he said, standing and giving her what he hoped was at least half a smile. "And thank you."

"Hey, handsome," she said, bending over Dean and slightly adjusting the ventilator. "Are you going to open those pretty green eyes for us sometime? I know you've got 'em." She flashed Sam a grin and then looked back at John, studying his face.

"He must have gotten them from his mother," she said and John nodded.

"He did. He's – uh – he's a lot like her." Angie patted Dean's chest lightly.

"Like mother, like son, huh?" She glanced over at Sam.

"You want to help me out again?" He nodded and stood, waiting for instructions.

"What do I have to do?" he asked as John moved to the foot of the bed, watching.

"We're going to remove these," she said, pulling at the wires stuck to Dean's forehead, up near his hairline. "So we can get new, cleaner ones. We're a bit strict about hygiene here in the ICU." She handed Sam a warm washcloth. "They've got little sticky bits on the back of them, medical glue in fact. Just wipe down his forehead gently to get all the gunk off."

John was surprised at the tenderness coming from Sam as he stooped over Dean, brushing the washcloth over his face like he was a newborn.

"Does that feel good?" he heard Sam murmur. "Yeah, I bet it does."

"I think he likes it when you talk," Angie told Sam. "You can tell by the machines that he calms down more when he's listening to you."

"Really?" She nodded but furrowed her brow a moment later, reading a scroll of paper that one machine had just spit out.

"Looks like handsome here has developed a bit of a fever. I'll mention it to the doctor and we'll see about some antibiotics."

"What's wrong with him?" John asked, taking a step forward.

"It's probably the start of an infection," Angie said, still huddling over the machines. "Or his body just trying to fight off all his injuries."

"What can we do?" John asked, almost helplessly. Sam had moved on to wash the rest of Dean's face, still exuding the same gentleness.

"Our priority is to keep him as comfortable as possible. That's about as much as we can do," she said, "But the doctor will talk to you about that more." She moved another cloth over Dean's face, drying it, and then placed clean electrodes where the old ones had been.

She left them alone again but now both Sam and John were hovering over Dean anxiously. John brushed his fingertips over Dean's forehead and frowned at the heat radiating from his oldest son.

"I don't want him to be uncomfortable," Sam said to nobody in particular but John nodded.

"Me neither. They'll get him on some medicine and he'll be fine."

He said the words without thinking; they threw themselves out of his lips from habit, a Hunter's constant reassurance that everything would turn out okay. Sam shrunk away from him, loathing spreading back to his features.

"No he won't be," Sam said. "And it's your fault." It was the beginning of the fight and both of them knew it, would probably have had to take it out to the hallway if Dr. Cantwell hadn't walked in at that second, scooping up Dean's clipboard that was hanging from his bed.

"Hello Mr. Winchester, Sam."

"Hello," they both muttered. The doctor either didn't notice the tension in the room or chose to ignore it.

"I spoke to Angie and it does appear that Dean has the beginnings of an infection. We'll start him on a round of antibiotics so it doesn't get any worse and watch him closely to see if it develops." He got closer to the bed and took out a penlight, flipping up one of Dean's eyelids to shine it directly into his pupils and then took out a stethoscope to get a better sound of his heartbeat. John and Sam waited not so patiently throughout the examination, edging farther away from each other until each was on a separate side of the room.

"Dean's condition is about the same," Dr. Cantwell said finally. "Barring the infection, of course. His eyes aren't reacting much to light and his heart is still very weak. He's not fighting the ventilator at all which means he's not trying to breathe on his own."

"What about brain activity?" Sam asked. "You said it was decreasing before." Dr. Cantwell nodded, flipping up a page on the clipboard and scribbling down notes.

"That seems to be stable at the moment; it hasn't decreased in the last few hours. However," he cautioned at the glimmer of hope on Sam's face. "That doesn't mean he's going to recover. You have to understand how hard his body is working right now and with a damaged heart on top of it all. It's likely the stress will just be too much for him. I'm sorry." Sam swallowed hard but nodded in a rigid way, more of a muscle spasm than anything else. John looked as if someone had punched him in the gut, almost wishing that someone had because that would surely be less painful than this.

"Let the nurses know if you need me and I'll come right away," Dr. Cantwell said. "Any change or if you need more information, just let me know." Sam stared numbly after him as he left, the curtain swishing and rustling behind him.

Angie came in a minute later with the antibiotic and a chair for John. She seemed to sense they'd gotten bad news and said nothing as she worked quietly around the stunned men. Sam didn't sit down again until a while after she left and then he just crumpled into the chair, long limbs folding in on themselves. John seemed just as defeated, leaning over onto the bed to grip Dean's hand in between his own.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam heard him whisper and looked up to find his father crying, a sight he was sure he'd never seen before. Sam's first thought was that the man in front of him didn't deserve to be crying. Every single ounce of this situation was on John's shoulders, all of it could have been prevented had he just been responsible to take care of his own son. He wasn't allowed to grieve because grieving meant you were hurting and Sam just couldn't believe that John had suddenly grown compassionate in the last twenty-four hours. He was the same man he'd been for twenty years, now more of a coward than ever. Sam huffed out a disgusted noise but didn't say anything.

They spent the entire day at Dean's bedside, leaving only for minutes to grab a coffee down the hall, always returning as quickly as possible, never looking at each other for more than a brief glance. There was no sense of solidarity between them, perhaps never would be again. Too much had happened, too much had been lost.

"There's a hotel next to the hospital," John said as dusk crept in around them, noticeable only by the time on the clock above the nurse's station since there were no windows in this part of the hospital.. "I got a room before. Do you want -,"

"No," Sam said. "I'm not leaving."

"Sam, you should at least get a couple hours of sleep."

"I'm not leaving," he repeated, almost growling. "And don't you dare start fathering me now after all these years."

"Fine," John snapped then took a deep breath. "I'm going to go sleep for a while. I've been up for forty-eight hours."

"Fine."

"Here," he said, handing Sam a key card. "It's room 308 if you change your mind." Sam stuffed the card in his pocket.

"Don't worry, Dean," Sam said once his father was out of the room. "I'll never walk out on you again."

xxx

Sam must have fallen asleep in the uncomfortable chair at some point because he opened his eyes to Angie leaning over him, with a finger to her lips to keep him quiet. It was darker now, the majority of the lights having been dimmed to give off the appearance of nighttime even though this part of the hospital seemed to run on it's own timetable.

"Dean?" Sam whispered frantically, scrambling to right himself where he'd slumped over. Someone – probably Angie – had thrown a blanket over him and it slid to the ground in his flailing.

"He's okay," she said quickly, sensing his panic. "But he's awake and I thought you might like to say hi." Sam heart was thudding hard in his chest, the familiar flush and thrill of adrenaline running through him. Sure enough, when he peered over at his brother, Dean's eyes were mostly opened.

"I came in a minute ago and found him awake," Angie said in his ear. "Go ahead and say hi. Just keep quiet and calm so you don't upset him. He might not understand what you're saying but he'll be able to sense the tone of your voice." Sam nodded and sat down in the chair so he wasn't looming over Dean.

"Hey, Dean," he said, voice trembling slightly despite his best efforts to keep it steady. "It's me, Sam." Dean had been staring straight ahead, almost unseeing, but when Sam spoke, his eyes moved to the left, toward Sam's voice. Angie stayed right at Sam's side.

"Dean," she said, noticing the sudden spike in the heart monitor. "You're in the hospital but you're okay. Your brother is here to see you." Then something alarming happened. In an effort to figure out where the second voice was coming from, Dean tried to switch his gaze between the two of them and his eyes jerked and skipped to various points in the room, as if having a seizure.

"What's going on?" Sam said, voice rising in agitation. "What's wrong with him?"

"Shh," Angie said and moved so that she was very close to Dean.

"Dean, focus on me. I'm right in front of you. Follow my voice all the way over here – that's right, over here, handsome. You do have some pretty eyes, don't you? There you go, now you're looking at me. I might be blurry or just a shape but that's okay. My name is Angie and I'm your nurse. We've had some nice conversations since you've been here."

Dean's eyes had moved slowly over to her, not focusing until he seemed to find the point that was Angie's forehead. His expression was unreadable and Sam didn't know if that was because he just wasn't taking in anything around him or he if was doing it on purpose. Angie took Dean's hand and ran the pad of her thumb across his palm in a soothing gesture.

"Your brother Sam is here. He came all the way from California to see you. He's going to say hi, okay?" Without moving, she reached her other hand behind her, tugging at Sam and bringing him close.

"Dean's having a hard time tracking," she explained. "That means it's hard for him to follow movement so you're going to stay as still as possible when you talk to him. Just talk to him and let him know you're here. Here, switch places with me."

Sam took her place and then was staring back into the same emerald eyes he'd grown up with. The ones that had hovered over him as they tucked him in at night, as they read him books in the back of the Impala, as they taught Sam to tie his shoes and shoot a gun.

"Hey, buddy," Sam said. "I'm right here, just follow my voice. There's no way you can miss me," he teased. "I'm taller than you now. Probably heavier too." Dean's eyes were looking somewhere in the proximity of Sam's face, not exactly focused but that was good enough for him. There was still enough depth in them for Sam's heart to ache painfully, even if Dean wasn't all there.

"Dad was here earlier but he left a little bit ago to get some sleep. If you wake up later, you can see him though. He'd be real happy about that."

"Ask him if he's in pain," Angie said behind him, already preparing a syringe. "Tell him to blink once if yes."

"Dean, are you hurting right now? It's okay to say yes. They've got some real good drugs here and we want you to be comfortable. Just blink to tell me yes and I'll get you some." There was an agonizing second as Dean didn't react and then he blinked once, rapidly.

"Okay," Angie said. "I'm going to give you a good dose of morphine to get you through the rest of the night." She injected it into his IV and within seconds, Dean's expression had relaxed and his eyes were drooping close.

"Dean," Sam said somewhat urgently. There was just one thing he had to tell his brother, one thing he had to get out while he had the chance. Dean might never wake up again.

There was a weariness to Dean's gaze as he latched onto Sam again, seeming just for a moment to actually look Sam in the eye. Right then, his brother looked so much younger than twenty-four. To Sam, he just looked like a tired and sick child who was ready for this fight to be over.

"Dean," Sam said again. "I just want to tell you I'm sorry. I'm sorry for leaving. And – and I love you, okay?" There was a beat of the brother's holding each other's gaze and then Dean's eyes slipped shut and Sam let out a long breath.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Well, I wasn't going to update again this week but you guys are so lovely with your follows and reviews that I thought you deserved it. Remember to let me know what you think after you read! And also: even though I know where I'm going with this story, I'm still in the process of writing it so if there are any suggestions or scenes you'd like me to consider, don't be afraid to let me know.

* * *

Unable to fall back asleep or even stay still, Sam wandered out of Dean's room and into the rest of the ICU. Five of the other beds were occupied, all with residents who looked like they were about eighty years old, leaving Dean as the baby of the unit, the misplaced child in an adult's world.

"Sam?" Angie waved him over from the nurse's station and he went, shoulders slumped forward as his hands dug into his jean's pockets, searching for something to cling to. Sam felt as though he was slipping down a steep hill with nothing to stop his descent.

"Why don't you go get some rest?" Angie asked him, continuing quickly when he started to protest. "Leave me your cell number and I'll call you the minute something changes, I promise."

"I'm fine," Sam said but the words were thick like glue and the slightest bit slurred.

"Just a couple hours," the nurse said. "You won't do Dean any good by making yourself sick."

Sam's bones felt heavy inside his skin, as if they had been replaced with lead weights intent on denying gravity. He hadn't eaten anything since dinner yesterday, hadn't had anything to drink either except for a cup of coffee John had brought him hours ago and the lack of nourishment was making his head fuzzy,

"Okay," he said and Angie led him to the doors and helped him strip from the hospital scrubs, throwing them straight in the trash and pushing a Styrofoam cup of steaming caffeine into his hands.

"I'll look after him for you," she assured him and with that, Sam turned and walked away.

The Oldsmobile, which Jess affectionately called the Hulking-Piece-of-Crap, was waiting for him in the parking lot and Sam slid into the seat, sitting there for a good ten minutes, trying and failing to wrap his head around what was happening. His brother was dying. Dean. The one who had gotten up early his whole life just to make Sam breakfast, the one who took him to that field behind Bobby's junkyard and taught him how to throw a football instead of shooting a .45 like John wanted. Sam's life hadn't exactly been conventional but it was his brother who had made it worth living. Dean was the one who was there with a joke every time Sam was frustrated or upset. He had held Sam in his arms through bouts of crying, had stayed up all night with him whenever Sam had gotten sick.

And even though Sam had left Dean behind three years ago, he – just like John – had never fathomed that the happy-go-lucky Winchester would ever be…gone. Dean was the embodiment of life, an energy so strong and thriving that Sam figured the planet's rotation was strung into place by his brother's very existence.

Except it wasn't.

For some reason unknown to Sam, the universe had decided to snatch his most valued possession from him when he hadn't been paying attention. Leaning against the headrest, Sam closed and his eyes and imagined going back to his life at Stanford, to slipping into bed next to Jess and pretending that none of this had happened. Could he do that? Would it be possible to move on with his life after Dean was no longer with them? Sam's chest ached at the thought and he started the car to avoid thinking of the answer.

The hotel was just across the street and Sam parked outside, swinging his backpack onto his shoulder before heading inside.

It was way nicer than any place he had ever stayed, not that that was saying much because usually John parked them at the second worst motel in town, always getting the room in the corner, shutting the curtains and locking the door the second they got inside.

The room was on the third floor and Sam could see the lights were on before he even swiped the key and pushed on the handle. John was seated on one of the two double beds in the room and he whipped around when he heard the door open, hand scrambling for the gun on the bedside table.

"It's just me," Sam said dully, not even glancing at the muzzle pointed at his chest.

"Sorry," John grunted but Sam shrugged and slipped off his shoes. "Is Dean the same?"

"Yeah. He, uh, actually woke up for a minute a little while ago." John looked pained at missing his older son's moment of consciousness but he didn't say anything. "The nurse has my number," Sam continued. "She's going to call if there's any change. They pretty much kicked me out."

"You should sleep," John agreed but then ducked his head slightly as if waiting for Sam's harsh words. His son said nothing, just pulled off the plaid button down he'd had on over his t-shirt and disappeared into the bathroom. John knew what was coming, he knew there was no way Sam was going to let him continue on without some type of confrontation so when his youngest son came back into the room with a look more dangerous than the Impala's stockpile, he was ready.

"So what happened?" Sam demanded. "Did you turn your back for a second? A minute? Did you even try to help him?" John wanted to fight back, wanted to argue because there was something about his youngest son that lit a fire in his veins, something about Sam that was capable of sending every rational thought out of the Hunter's head. But God, he was so tired. Full of an exhaustion and grief so crippling that not even the twenty-year-old standing in front of him could pierce through.

"He went by himself," John said. "I thought he could handle the hunt by himself." He stared at Sam's forehead as the kid's eyes widened, his expression akin to that of a storm cloud about to break open with heaven's fury.

"You did _what?_"

"It was supposed to be an easy job. The Rakshasa was supposed to be wounded, weakened." Sam's nostrils flared and he shifted on his feet. John thought he looked like he was trying to keep himself from pouncing.

"You're kidding, right? Is all this some game to you?" Sam insisted, voice rising. "You've spent the last twenty years playing some twisted version of Ghostbusters just to satisfy this ridiculous revenge notion of yours! And now look what happened. You got your son killed."

"Hey!" John snapped, finally looking his son in the eye, not even flinching when he saw nothing but pure hatred glaring back at him. "Dean asked to go on that hunt by himself! He's been begging me for ages."

If this was supposed to appease Sam at all, John was mistaken. Instead, Sam threw up both arms and took a step forward, his voice filling the room, bruising the air.

"Of course he wanted to! He's spent his entire life looking up to you like you're a hero or something. You've given him all sorts of stupid ideas about saving people and doing good when in fact you're in this fight only for yourself. So yeah, of course he wanted to, Dad. But that didn't mean you were supposed to let him!"

"I don't know if you've forgotten but I'm doing this for your mother!" Sam snorted and shook his head, pressure and tension building between the two of them.

"Get over it! She died two decades ago. And she left you with her children. You were supposed to take care of us. Instead, you ruined our childhood. I feel so sorry for Dean. He never even had a chance. You turned him into a soldier, just like you wanted to do to me. At least I was smart enough to see through you, to get away from it all." John's ability to keep calm had all but dissipated at the Sam's rough mention of Mary.

"Don't you dare talk about your mother that way! You have no idea-"

"Really, Dad?" Sam said. "Do you think Mom would have been happy that you put her oldest son in hospital bed? I might not have known her like you or even Dean but I'm pretty sure she would have sacrificed a hell of a lot more for Dean than you ever have."

"Enough!" John roared, taking his own step forward so that the two men were only a foot apart, vehemence rolling both of them in waves to strike against each other, two colliding oceans of outrage. "Every choice I made was for a reason and I'm sorry if you would have done it differently. But this is our life."

"Your life," Sam said. The words were a quiet admission but still John reared back as if slapped, as if somewhere deep inside him he truly believed that Sam was like him. After a moment, the Hunter shook his head and backed away, grabbing his coat off the nearest bed.

"I'm going to the hospital," John said and his voice no longer held the furious thunder from before. "I'll see you later." The door opened and then shut behind Sam and still he didn't move. His toes were curled around the carpet beneath his feet, his hands shaking slightly from the heated argument. Here his son was dying and John still refused to see that all of this had been a mistake, that his brutal way of living had cost him the life of his child. But Dean was just another sacrifice to John, Sam thought. Just another casualty in a war that was never going to be over, just another means to an end.

He collapsed onto the bed and turned to face the wall, knowing that the minute he closed his eyes nightmares of the old days would come rushing back to him because no matter how hard or long Sam ran from his past, it would always be faster, stronger. He hadn't managed to escape John those years ago, not really. And with that realization, Sam buried his face into his pillow and let the horrors come forth.

xxx

The phone didn't get past the first shrill ring before it was up against Sam's ear, his shoulders slamming against the headboard in an attempt to scramble out of bed.

"Hello?"

"It's me." Jess's voice came from the other end and Sam sank back onto the bed, one shoe dropping from his grip.

"Oh, hi."

There was a silence between them and Sam could tell that even though Jess didn't speak, she was annoyed. When you were with someone for over two years, you tended to pick up on things like that. But Sam had been expecting a phone call from the hospital to let him know how Dean was. Glancing at the clock, he saw he'd been asleep for four hours already. Anything could have happened in that time. His thoughts weren't exactly on his girlfriend at the moment.

"How's Dean?" Jess finally asked.

"Not good," Sam said and then heaved a sigh, sinking back into the pillows and throwing one arm up to cover his eyes. "He was attacked by an animal while on a hunting trip." He swallowed hard as memories of Dean's grotesque injuries flooded his mind.

"I'm so sorry, Sam," Jess said and he was relieved to hear that much of the annoyance had faded already, replaced by the tenderness he knew so well. "Do you want me to come there?"

"No," he said automatically then hurried for a reason. "My Dad is here and things aren't great between us. I don't want you to get in the middle of that."

Jess had been with Sam for twenty-seven months – yes, she kept track – and had never met a single one of his family members. As far as she knew, he only had a father and an older brother, Dean; his mother had died in a house fire when he was just a baby. There were no birthdays to celebrate, no family reunions, no tortuous holiday parties for the two to attend as a couple. Whatever family moments they had came from Jess's side of the family and even those, Sam tended to shy away from.

"I understand if it's not the right time," she said carefully. "But sometime I would like to meet your dad." There was a harsh sound on the other end of the phone and it took her a minute to figure out Sam had just laughed.

"Sorry," he said a second later. "But you know that I don't want you meeting him. He's not a good person."

"But he raised you," she insisted, just like she had numerous times before. Sam was quiet for a minute then said,

"Yeah, he did. And it was awful. Listen, he's really stressed about Dean and everything. It's just not a good time."

"Okay," Jess said, backing off. "But let me know if you want me to come."

"I will," Sam promised. "But I think I'll probably be back soon."

She heard the unsaid meaning that was woven through that last sentence, that awful implication that Sam's life was about to change in a way she couldn't imagine. She was an only child, had never fully understood Sam's attachment to his distant older brother. She might not understand it but she knew that Dean's death was going to destroy some part of her boyfriend.

"I love you," was all she said.

"I love you too," Sam said. "I'm going to head back to the hospital but I'll call you later."

After hanging up, Sam let himself lay on the bed for another five minutes before pushing off the comfortable mattress and digging his shoes out from under the bed. He slipped a new t-shirt out of his backpack and pulled it on, doing nothing else other than splashing water on his face before walking over to the hospital.

Once more decked out in the scrubs that made him look like a giant Smurf, Sam entered the ICU, going directly over to Dean. It was now eight in the morning and the ward was busier than it had been when he left. Another bed had been filled, a middle-aged woman lay two beds to Dean's right and she looked to be in much the same condition as his brother, with a ventilator humming beside her. The only difference was that this woman had a turban of bandages around her head.

John was sitting in the chair he had been in yesterday, eyes glazed over and unfocused as he stared at the boy in front of him. He started when Sam walked through the curtain.

"Hey," he said hoarsely, clearing his throat. "Did you sleep at all?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "Has the doctor been in?" John shook his head, leaning forward and stretching, rubbing his hands along his lower back in an attempt to ease the knots that had gathered there.

"Soon, I think. Here, that nurse from yesterday left you a note." He handed Sam a piece of paper – a prescription pad that had two sentences on it written in neat cursive.

_Sam, I'll keep praying for Dean. And for you._

He stared at it for a second; the kindness of the young nurse inexplicably almost bringing him to tears. He folded the paper into quarters and stuck it in his pocket. John looked curious but didn't ask any questions.

"Hey, buddy," Sam said to Dean as he took his now-familiar seat. The fever spots were gone from Dean's cheeks and when Sam picked his hand, his brother's skin had lost that frightening chill. He actually felt like Dean again. "Sorry I left for a little bit but I'm back now. Jess says hi." Sam had been hoping with a blind optimism that Dean might be awake when he arrived or that he might acknowledge Sam's words in some way but his brother eyes stayed closed and he made no movement.

Dean's hair was longer than Sam remembered it, the last time he'd been with him, it was practically a buzz cut. It had grown a few inches since then and stuck up wildly from laying in the bed. His brother's freckles stood out in stark contrast in the paleness that was his skin and looking at him this close, Sam thought Dean's eyelashes looked impossibly long, brushing against his cheekbones as he slept.

"I always thought I had the good looks," Sam half-teased because it was just now that Sam was noticing how delicate his brother's features were, how much a loss this world was going to take after those freckles and eyelashes disappeared forever.

"He really does look like Mary," John murmured from the other side of the bed and Sam's head jerked up to stare at his father. "He's got her eyes and her nose." The hunter switched his gaze to Sam and the boy was struck by how incredibly sad John looked; it was the look he got every other time Sam had seem him talk about his late wife. But there was something deeper and heavier mixed into the expression now and for a moment, just a split second, Sam thought that maybe John was hurting just as much as he was.

But then he remembered that it was John who sent Dean out alone on a suicide mission and the moment of consideration was replaced by scalding anger.

"Did you know that Dean was blonde when he was little?" John was saying, not looking for an answer. "Just like his mother. She was so thrilled when he was born. I still remember it. Hard not to, it was snowing pretty hard, practically a blizzard. But this guy just didn't want to wait, did you?" John took Dean's other hand and Sam suddenly felt awkward and out of place, as if witnessing something he shouldn't be. If there was one thing that made him uncomfortable, it was vulnerability in a man that made a living killing in cold blood.

"And the first thing your mother did when she saw you was laugh," John continued, speaking directly to Dean now, placing a hand on his son's uninjured cheek before drawing away again. "She loved you to the ends of the earth, Dean." He swung his gaze to look at Sam. "She loved both of you so much," he told Sam.

_So why couldn't you?_ Sam thought. _You used up all your love on one person and when she was gone, you didn't know how to feel that again, did you?_

But he said nothing to his father. There was really nothing left to say, no words that could right the complete wrongness of this situation. It was too late for all them. Too late for John to apologize. Too late for Sam to forgive. Too late for Dean to live.

"Good morning," came a voice from the doorway and both Winchesters turned to see an older woman in nurse's scrubs standing there.

"Morning," John said, letting go of Dean's hand while Sam kept his brother's other one clutched tight.

"I'm Marion, Dean's other nurse. How are you folks doing today?"

It wasn't a question that was expected to be paired with an answer and everyone in the room understood that as Marion moved into the room. She was bigger than Angie and made the small area feel cramped but there was an undeniable tenderness to her movements as she checked Dean's vitals.

"How is he?" John asked, watching her closely for any sign of his son's improvement – or lack thereof.

"His infection hasn't gotten any worse," Marion said, slipping on a pair of glasses that dangled from a chain around her neck. Her blonde hair was short and spiked up, shot through with streaks of grey. "So that's a good sign. Hmmm," she murmured to herself and Sam's spine straightened at the wavering tone.

"What?" he wanted to know. "What's wrong?"

"I'm going to go page Dr. Cantwell," the nurse said without looking at either one of them. "I'll be back in a few minutes." Sam stood as she left, scanning his brother's body for any signs of change but Dean looked the same as he had. The ventilator hadn't been moved, the feeding tube was in place. Dean's long arms were still uncovered and when Sam checked the bandages beneath the blankets, they weren't any bloodier than they had been yesterday. In fact, Sam thought there might even be less blood. Next, Sam's attention turned to the machines but the only one he even halfway understood was the heart monitor and it was ticking out the same beats as before, a steady beeping that would have irked Sam in any other environment instead of being the comfort it was here.

"What's wrong?" he demanded from John but the hunter lifted his shoulders in a shrug, gazing at Dean with the same anxious expression as Sam, his eyes sweeping his son with a gaze full of unpredictability and concern.

They didn't have to wait long for the doctor. Dr. Cantwell swept in with Marion at his shoulder, the nurse reciting a string of numbers as they moved over to Dean. The healthy Winchesters moved simultaneously into the same corner to give the doctor and nurse more room to work and Sam found his shoulder brushing up against his father's before moving a few inches away.

"What is going on?" John said. Sam felt his heartbeat increase and a cold sweat was soaking his palms, making his fingers twitch and curl.

"Dean's fighting the ventilator," the doctor said almost absentmindedly as he fiddled with the machine that stole and replaced Dean's breath with a steady rhythm.

"What does that mean?" Sam asked. "Is that bad?" Dr. Cantwell finally turned toward them, expression guarded and carefully neutral.

"The opposite actually. It means that Dean's lungs are working on their own to some degree." Sam's eyebrows disappeared into his bangs.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he repeated. The doctor shook his head, consulting his clipboard.

"We don't know. I'm going to perform an EEG – it measures brain activity more accurately and more in depth than the machine we have him hooked up to at the moment."

Neither John nor Sam said a word as Marion hustled them out of the room, pointing to two chairs in the hallway outside the ICU.

"I'll come get you when it's over," she said. "Just wait here and try not to worry too much." Sam gaped at her. Everything in the last ten minutes had happened so quickly, he was having problems processing what exactly was going on. He'd come to the hospital today prepared to say goodbye, to let Dean slide from this world to the next with nothing more than a few murmured sorries and a rare set of tears. And now there was a crowd of people in his brother's room and some huge machine was pushed past them a few minutes later. John paced the hallway as Sam stood by the doors, trying to see through the narrow window slot to Dean's room but the action was in vain. There were so many people huddled around Dean that Sam couldn't even see his brother's bed. He let out a growl of frustration.

"Sam, calm down," John ordered from across the hallway.

"Don't tell me what to do," Sam snapped. "I want to know what's going on."

"So do I. But they're not going to let you back in until you've calmed down," his father pointed out. Sam took a seat in one of the chairs, knotting his fingers together in distress, heels bouncing up and down against the linoleum floor.

"Did he kill the Rakshasa?" Sam asked suddenly, examining the white wall across from him, the dark shape of John at the end of his peripheral vision.

"Yes," John said. "It was dead by the time I found him."

"Good," Sam said, bobbing his head. "That's good." John took a few steps so he was in front of his youngest son.

"Listen Sam, I don't want you to get your hopes up, okay? Your brother was very badly injured. I was there, I saw him…there was just no way…"

"Are you giving up on him?" Sam said, voice sharp. "Are you okay with just letting him go?" He let out a mirthless laugh, a sound that chilled John to the bone; he recognized an inhuman noise when he heard one. "You'd probably be relieved if he died, wouldn't you?" Worry and fear were grating at Sam, taking away his rational thoughts and replacing them with these words that just kept pouring out of him. "Then you wouldn't have to worry about being a father anymore."

That's when the last strings of John's already fragile patience snapped and his fist connected solidly with Sam's face.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Apologies for the lack of updates; I was on holiday in France and the Netherlands and had no access to my computer. However, all the time on trains and planes meant that I had tons of time to write and so I can confirm there is _lots _more coming up for the Winchesters. Maybe a Jess appearance? Bobby? Hmm, we'll see. Leave a review and let me know what you think!

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John wasn't sorry, at least not about Sam's rapidly swelling split lip or the blood trickling out of his nose. He _was_ sorry that one of his children was lying in a hospital bed, strapped to machines like a freaking science experiment. He was sorry that he let everything get this bad but even though he was sorry, he didn't understand how he could of done anything differently. To him, the choices he made during the boys' childhood were the only ones available to him and Sam was going to have to grow up and deal with the consequences, whether he liked it or not. And judging by the way he was scowling through an ice pack given to him by Marion the nurse, he did not like it. Sam was not dealing.

Marion had taken one look at Sam's face and turned right back around to find an icepack that she instructed he use and said she would check on him in twenty minutes. She seemed hesitant to leave the two men alone as it wasn't all that difficult to guess what had happened. The matronly nurse had come out to check on them halfway through Dean's procedure only to find John sulking in a corner down the hallway and Sam leaning up against the wall, his face a mess.

"I'm fine," Sam grumbled as she fussed over him.

"Let's be thankful you didn't break your nose," she said and he winced when she prodded it. "Keep the ice on it, that will keep the swelling down." She threw a glance at John who had stood several yards away. In Marion's opinion, he didn't look nearly as sorry for punching his son as he should. "Do I need to stay here and babysit you two?" she asked Sam and he shook his head while keeping the icepack in place.

"He's just upset," Sam said. "We both are." The nurse's skeptical look softened and she patted his arm.

"Understandable," she said. "With everything that's going on. But that doesn't mean he should be taking it on you."

_Yeah well that's why I walked out in the first place, _Sam thought but he only shrugged at Marion.

"I was asking for it. Said some stuff."

"Alright well, I'm going back in there to help out but maybe one of you should take a walk or at least not talk to each other for a little while until you've cooled down. I'll come get you when the doctor is finished."

John didn't need to be told to maintain his distance from Sam; his son's blood was smeared over his knuckles that were currently jammed into his pocket as he paced a small path around the other end of the corridor. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the nurse – Marion was this one's name – examined Sam's tender injury and gave him a cold pack for the swelling.

But still John was not sorry. How dare Sam accuse John of such awful things, of not wanting to be a father? He lived for his boys. Sure, he didn't show it in all the conventional ways but he had spent the last two decades doing what he thought was best for them. He thought of all the schools Sam and Dean had attended, all the motel rooms and crappy apartments they had occupied over the years, all the friends and toys and even pets left behind during middle-of-the-night moves. They hadn't had it easy but then again, neither had he, his own father disappearing without so much as a goodbye, leaving a too-young John to look after his mother. So the boys could have had it worse really. They had had John…most of the time. And they had each other.

As John slid down the wall, settling on the cold floor, he realized he'd been waiting years to throw that punch, to show his son how furious he had been for leaving his family behind. Dean understood the value of family, understood that the most important place to be was next to John, following the orders that would carry them down the path of sweet revenge. Dean was everything John had wanted in a son: obedient and eager to help.

Sam was neither of those things.

His youngest did not like hunting; that much was clear from the get-go. He preferred books to weapons. Dean was content filling rock salt bullets while Sam whined for hours about how he should be working on whatever ridiculous homework the public school system had set up for him.

"Sam," John had told the boy a million times. "School is important, I know. But in the grand scheme of things, it doesn't matter as much as you think it does. Knowing math equations isn't going to save your life when you wake up to a demon standing at the end of your bed."

_Man up,_ he would say, clapping Sam on the shoulder. _Shut up and quit whining _is what Sam heard and from there the resentment grew, festering like an infected wound left untreated, growing in him until that night when he announced he was leaving. The night he had walked out the door without once glancing over his shoulder at John's face screwed up tight in anger and disbelief. Sam had been the one to leave, not the other way around. He should have stayed, should have chosen John and Dean over some absurd dream of normality, that's what John told himself over the next three years every time his fingers lingered over his cellphone, every holiday that slipped by with no contact with his youngest son.

Yes, that punch had been a long time coming.

Marion came back out a while later, trailed by two kid-like interns pushing that same machine back down the hall. She checked on Sam's face, clucked her disapproval and waved them to follow behind her back into the ICU.

There were only a few people in Dean's space now, a couple nurses who finished adjusting the blankets and the machines and left, and Dr. Cantwell, who was standing by the head of Dean's bed, looking too perplexed for John's liking. That hesitant, not-so-sure-what's-going-on expression was not one he thought a medical professional should be wearing. Their whole job was to answer questions, to excavate the facts from those unknown corners of the universe the rest of the world didn't have access to. Doctors were not allowed to be uncertain.

"So?" Sam said, tossing the ice pack on the counter behind him. John stared right through the bruise blossoming across his son's left cheek while Dr. Cantwell raised his eyebrows. "What's going on with Dean?" Sam continued, daring the doctor to comment on his new disfigurement. Dr. Cantwell blinked, cleared his throat and then glanced down at his clipboard as if it suddenly had all the answers he did not.

"Like I said before, Dean is fighting the ventilator a bit so we turned down the oxygen levels and we'll be watching closely the next few hours to see if his lungs can handle that. Also, the EEG we performed on Dean – that's the test that measures brain activity – came back with results we weren't expecting. It seems as if Dean has experienced an increase in brain activity."

"How is that possible?" John wanted to know, folding his arms over his chest and taking on the stance Sam recognized from the days when John had been more marine than father. The doctor looked very much like he was resisting the urge to shrug.

"We're not sure at the moment," he said. "You have to understand that the severity of Dean's injuries gave us little to no expectation of recovery."

"Recovery?" Sam interrupted. "You told me to say my goodbyes. Are you saying he might live?" Dr. Cantwell looked uncomfortable, knuckles going pale as he gripped the clipboard tight.

"Sometimes, patients who seem already gone can come back to us. I have to say, I didn't think Dean would be one of them. Mr. Winchester, Sam," he said seriously, all authority rushing back to him. "Dean is not out of the woods, not by a long shot. The fact he is responding to stimulation doesn't change the fact his heart is extremely weak. Or that his type of injuries are prone to serious infection."

"Make up your mind," Sam said, exasperated. "Is he dying or not?" The doctor winced then recovered.

"I know you want a straight answer but I just don't have one. It's a waiting game for now. We'll monitor Dean closely for other changes but please be warned he could still slip away. Sometimes, the strongest rally right before death." Sam rolled his eyes and turned away while John had the dignity to thank Dr. Cantwell and shake his hand before the white coat disappeared around the curtain, leaving just the three Winchesters.

"Damn," John swore softly. Neither one of them seemed to be capable of articulate speech or even to stop moving. But there wasn't enough space for them both to pace so John Winchester took one more look at his unconscious son and left the room, leaving Sam to stew in a pool of his own hope and worry.

Being it was getting later in the morning, there was more activity going on outside John's cubicle of thought that consisted only of his two sons. The nurse's station was busy with the ladies in scrubs going to and from the seven occupied beds. No, make that six. Someone had died in the middle of the night, not that John could bring himself to care. Right now he didn't care if every other person on this earth died, as long it wasn't either one of the boys he had just left behind a curtain. Despite the reservations Sam had about his father, John knew if given the chance, he would trade places with Dean if it meant his son would live. Actually, that was something to look into if Dean's progress didn't continue. John could head to the library, make some calls…

"Hello again." The soft voice came from John's left and it wasn't until a familiar hand laid itself on his arm that he realized the words had been directed at him. Looking around, he found the same old woman from yesterday standing at his side.

"Er, hello," John said.

"I never got to introduce myself yesterday," the woman said. "I'm Ellie, short for Eleanor." And when she wrinkled her nose at the name, John got a flash of the girl she must have been years ago. "Unbelievably, it was a common name back then. Horrid, I know."

"John," the hunter said, sticking out a hand and deciding not to comment on the name. "Are you – are you here for someone?" He cringed inwardly after he said it because why else would anyone be spending time in a place as awful and depressing as the Intensive Care Unit? But Ellie just dropped the soft smile she had been giving him and waved a hand behind her.

"My daughter is here." John followed where she had gestured and saw it was a bed just a little ways from Dean, occupied by a woman who looked about his own age, maybe younger. It was hard to tell under the nest of bandages that covered her head.

"I'm sorry," he said and he meant it.

"Thank you. Would you like to meet her?" John did not; he did not want to be forced to stare down at the body of another sickly human being that he could do nothing for, but Ellie was already taking his hand and leading him over to her daughter.

"Elizabeth," Ellie said, speaking to the woman in the bed. "This is John. He came over to say hi." For one terrible second John thought that Ellie was going to make him respond, that he was going to have to come up with something to say to a comatose woman he didn't know when he could hardly gather enough intellect to talk to his own son.

"What happened?" John said instead. Ellie heaved a sigh that sounded similar to the ones John had been letting out ever since he walked through the hospital doors. There might be a generational gap or two between them but when it came down to it, they were just two grieving parents.

"A car accident. It wasn't her fault." Ellie stroked her daughter's hand for a moment, lost in her own world of pain. John knew the feeling well.

"Will she be okay?" he asked without thinking. That made two slips of the tongue in the last five minutes. He should just stop talking to other people in general.

"No," Ellie said bluntly, still gazing at her daughter. "She's already gone. We're just waiting for her husband to get back from a business trip to say goodbye for good."

"Oh," was all John could think to say.

"How's your son?" Ellie asked after a moment. She didn't seem bothered by John's lack of response. "I've been praying for him you know." Just like yesterday – was it only yesterday? – John was oddly touched in a way he didn't get often that this woman, this perfect stranger, was extending such kindness toward his son and when she herself was going through such a difficult time. Maybe it was because she reminded him of Mary; praying for someone else's sick child was exactly what his wife have done.

"Uh, I don't know," John said, rubbing the back of his neck. "He wasn't supposed to…survive, but now the doctor says he might be getting better. They aren't sure. It's touch-and-go." Ellie had her hand back on John's arm and her eyes that were so blue stared back at John as if they could see into his soul.

"I'll keep praying for him, John." John's knees went weak and he had no choice but to sink into one of the two chairs by Elizabeth's bed, waiting until his weight was supported until dropping his head into his hands, pulling in great, quavering breaths. Ellie's arm had moved to his back and was rubbing large circles over his shirt but it just made John tremble harder. It had been so long since he'd been touched like this, cared for.

And in that moment, John Winchester wanted nothing more than wife. His wife who was dead and gone, his wife who was never coming back no matter what he did, no matter how many sons of bitches he hunted down and killed. The hunter who could kill with a piece of wire, a sharpened plank of wood, could make anything into a weapon, was just as broken as he had been the night Mary had been stolen from him.

John was broken and it had taken the maybe-death of his child to realize it. Perhaps he could have handled the fact he would never be whole again. Hell, he had spent the last twenty years trying to fill that hole his wife had left with revenge and anger, tried to patch himself up the best he could. Perhaps it would have been easier to deal with it if he didn't know any better, but ever since the door closed behind Sam all those nights ago, the suspicions, the inklings that he had done something wrong had crept in, making a nest of irrational thoughts in John's mind. Teasing him. Taunting him.

"Have faith," a voice whispered in his ear and if he couldn't see the pale blue tiles of the hospital floor he would have thought it was Mary whispering in his ear, come back to him in his most desperate moment of need.

But it wasn't.

Ellie was stooped over, her lips close to his ear, one hand still rubbing those damn circles while the other fumbled for his own fingers, the ones that were clenched into fists and hiding beneath his folded body.

"I can't," John whispered. "I don't know how."

She didn't start preaching, didn't start reciting the rosary or saying a prayer. Just "shhhed" and let him shake in her arms.

"One day, John," she told him. "One day God is going to give you a reason to have faith and you're going to be able to see so much more than you can right now. Everything happens for a reason." He shook his head and ducked out of her reach.

"How can you say that? Your daughter is dying," he said. "My son might be dying. We don't deserve that."

_My wife,_ he wanted to say, wanted to moan. _She didn't deserve that. So why?_ It was the same question that had led him to Hunting, had led him to the very life that seemed to have the answers nobody holding the Bible could muster up for him. Ellie just gave him a sad smile, one that suggested she knew much more than he did. That there was some secret to the universe nobody had let him in. Some hilarious punch line to his joke of a life that hadn't been delivered yet, or worse, the punch line had come and gone and John hadn't gotten what was so funny. No, if there was a God, he was cruel and manipulative, and John wanted no part in that.

They sat together in silence, Ellie staring at her daughter and John staring at the blank wall in front of him.

"I'm sorry," he said again after an hour. An hour of sitting and thinking of a sufficient way to apologize.

"It is my faith that comforts me," Ellie said after a minute, fingers twisting at the gold band on her left hand. "It is easier for me to imagine my Elizabeth up there happy and healthy with the angels than it is to imagine her as simply…gone." The old woman gave a shrug, pursing her lips slightly. "Maybe that's selfish of me. Maybe I'm putting my faith in something that exists only for the ease of my own soul. But if it helps, then I'm going to allow myself this one sliver of serenity in an otherwise tragic situation."

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I didn't mean to offend you."

"I know," Ellie said. "You are hurting and angry with the world and it's probably not the first or the last tragedy of your life. I know it's hard to have faith. But I mean what I said; I'll keeping praying for that boy of yours as long as he keeps fighting."

"That's one thing Dean knows how to do," John murmured. "He knows how to fight."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **So…I usually get good feedback from you guys but last chapter I got almost none. I write for you guys so if you're not interested in this story anymore or something, please let me know. It's okay if you aren't, I just don't want to waste anyone's time.

* * *

The waiting was tortuous. Sam thought that every muscle, every damn tendon in his body was going to snap under the strain of just sitting there and watching. Watching the white wall on the other side of Dean's bed morph into a swirling kaleidoscope of shapes and colors when his eyes got too tired and slid out of focus. Watching the nurses as they traced paths in the shiny floor that surely was beginning to wear from their constant journeys that didn't seem to vary. Watching Dean or more accurately, watching Dean's chest because it was the only part of his brother that was moving, despite that the doctor said he might be getting better. Sam couldn't see any difference in the body in front of him, there were no signals to show him that Dean's lungs were deciding to work or that his heart was deciding not to give out today.

Sam just needed to know. He felt awful thinking of it, had even walked clear out of Dean's room a few hours ago because he'd been crushed under the guilt of the thought.

_I just want him to get better or die._

He'd scrambled quickly over the words as if he'd said them out loud, as if he'd spoken without raising his hand first. Of course he didn't want Dean to die. Sam knew that if his brother didn't make it through this Sam himself could never go back to the way things were. It would be as if someone had carved out one of his major organs with a butter knife. That's not something one just simply recovered from. Sam knew that. But if Dean was going to go, Sam wanted it to happen soon because this _watching _had to be worse than anything. He wondered how all the people on TV did it, those programs that spotlighted the unfortunate souls who were stuck in a vegetative state for years while their family floundered in false hope and hospital bills.

Not that Sam was thinking only about himself in the matter. He didn't want Dean like this for the rest of his life. And Sam knew that Dean wouldn't want this either, wouldn't want to be stuck in a bed with rails like a toddler, wouldn't want a tube the thickness of two fingers jammed down his throat.

So if Dean was going to die, Sam wanted him to get on with it. It would be easier for everyone.

But if Dean was going to get better…

Well, Sam wanted him to get on with that choice too.

It'd only been a day and a half and still Sam done with the waiting. Raised with a knife in one and a gun in the other, Sam was always fighting something. Despite the differences that separated him from this father – and even from Dean – he couldn't deny he was cast from the same mold as the other two. He was meant to be moving, on his feet with a purpose, a destination to focus on. This whole doing nothing thing was not his style.

"Have you eaten anything today?" Marion asked when she came in during the late afternoon. John had been in and out of the room all day, taking his uneasiness elsewhere while Sam was content to let it boil down to the soles of his feet and trap him in his uncomfortable plastic chair.

"No," Sam said.

"The cafeteria is just opening for dinner. Why don't you go down there? I'll sit with Dean."

"No thanks," Sam said flatly.

"You want to end up in a bed next to your brother?" the older woman said, fiddling with one of the controls on the ventilator.

_Yes._

"No," he said out loud because he knew that's what he was supposed to say.

"Then you need to eat something," Marion said.

"I'm not hungry. How am I supposed to eat something when I'm not even hungry?" he pointed out and she rolled her eyes but dropped the subject. Marion knew a lost cause when she saw one and this Sam Winchester boy was toeing the line with those gangly looking feet of his. She worried he was going to take a nosedive right over the edge and the result was going to be a full on disaster.

"How's Dean?" he asked to change the subject.

"No change," she told him for the tenth time that day. And just like the other nine times, Sam let out a frustrated sigh, kneading his knuckles along the length of his thigh, letting them chafe roughly against the denim of his jeans. "Sam, you have to be patient. Your brother was seriously injured and it's going to take a while for him to heal. But he's fighting."

"I know," Sam said trying not to sound too miserable.

"He's maintaining the lower oxygen levels," the nurse encouraged. "That's good news. He's already gotten farther than he was supposed to. He definitely wants to live. Sometimes that's enough." She patted Sam on the shoulder on her way out. She wasn't as warm and fuzzy as Angie but she obviously cared for Dean and had taken excellent care of him. Had taken care of Sam after John's display of violence.

Sam touched his fingertips to the swollen bruise that had risen dramatically despite the ice packs Marion had kept bringing him. She'd assured him nothing under the skin was damaged but that didn't do much for the ever-present pain of his puffy lip and tender cheek. John certainly hadn't been holding back when he'd thrown himself at his son and Sam had a feeling that three years worth of anger was now blossoming across the left side of his face. The two had barely spoken to each other since the morning's altercation.

When the clock hit ten o'clock and John stood to leave for the apartment, Sam watched with narrowed eyes as his father stretched then leaned down to place a goodbye kiss on Dean's forehead. That was new. But then Sam was standing also, murmuring his own goodnight to his brother, and following John out of the hospital.

They walked to the hotel in continued silence, Sam because he had nothing to say and John because he didn't exactly know what you were supposed to say to your son after attacking him in the hallway of a hospital. When they got to the lobby and walked inside, Sam hung back, pulling his almost dead cell phone from his pocket.

"I've got to call Jess," he said, turning away from his father and heading to an armchair pushed into the corner of the spacious lobby. When he sank into it, facing out with one knee thrown lazily over the other, John had disappeared.

"Hey babe," Jess said, sounding breathless as she answered.

"What were you doing?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said. "I left the phone in the bedroom and had to run and get it." She waited for Sam to pick up the conversation because she didn't want to ask about Dean, didn't even want to say his name in case…

"I just got back from the hospital," Sam said quietly. The chair had a lot of give in it and Sam sank in further, wondering if it would be possible to just sleep here. After all day sitting on a piece of curved plastic, this was a four-star accommodation.

"Yeah?" Jess prompted. She could hear the quivering in her boyfriend's voice, could hear the exhaustion that strung itself over the four and a half hours separating them.

"He's still hanging in there," he said finally and felt an odd sense of relief when Jess let out a sigh.

"That's good news, right?"

He couldn't tell her. Couldn't tell her that traitorous thought that had leaked in.

_I just want him to get better or die._

Instead, he repeated back what Dr. Cantwell had told them about Dean's lungs and his brain and his heart and as he said the words he could hear himself growing more depressed by the second, the urge to snap the phone shut growing so strong he had to move it to his other hand and flex his fingers away from the device.

Jess was in the middle of spewing some motivational crap that made her sound like Marion when all of a sudden Sam felt a weight pressing on his chest and the need to end this godforsaken conversation before he exploded at his girlfriend in a very unboyfriendlike rant.

"Jess, I'm exhausted," he interrupted. He hurried through her pause. "I'm sorry, I just didn't sleep much last night and was with Dean all day and I need to sleep."

"You do," she agreed and if he had been that kind of person, he would have kissed the phone for her tolerance. Sam worried that being in such constant contact with his father was going to turn him back into that version of himself he had learned to hate, but Jess, this wonderful girl sitting in California, reminded him that he was different now.

"Goodnight," he said, almost whispered and this time she gave out a different kind of sigh, one that made him ache for her lips and the warmth of her body pressed against his.

"Goodnight, Sam. I love you."

Those last words gave him just enough energy to heave himself out of the luxurious chair and stumble into the hotel room; he was certain he was asleep before he even closed his eyes.

xxx

What Sam wanted was a black, dreamless sleep that let him forget what was going on in the real world. What he got was of thirty minutes of restless sleep before he lurched awake, always covered in a cold sweat, the sheets twisted painfully around his legs as if he'd been thrashing around. He couldn't ever remember what the dreams were about, he just woke up long enough to blink at the clock on the bedside table and then sink into the pillow for another round of nightmares.

After a few hours, he got up in the dark to go to the bathroom and on his way back noticed that it had somehow been five hours since he'd arrived at the hotel. He needed to get back to the hospital, get back to Dean before his brother woke up and found that no one was with him. Except that both Sam's mind and body were exhausted with the drain of the last two days and instead of putting on his shoes, he laid back down in bed, only half aware as stared at the black ceiling, flashes of Dean's injuries making his stomach squirm. He rolled over, faceplanting into the pillow, suffocating himself for a long moment, ignoring how much that they made his new bruises ache before tilting his head up to take a breath.

_Dean. I need to go to Dean._

Sam rolled his neck lazily so that he was staring at his father's bed. His father's empty bed. Well, if John was at the hospital in the middle of the night than there was no need for Sam to be there too. The two of them shouldn't even be in the same city let alone sharing a hotel room and a hospital cubicle the size of a walk-in closet. No, Sam would just grab another couple hours and then return to the hospital where he would demand more answers from that doctor.

_And call Jess again. And try not to fight with his father. And maybe eat something this time._

So much to do. He sighed out a breath that seemed to echo around the room and then Sam drifted back to a world he didn't particularly want to visit anymore.

xxx

Despite the numerous awakenings throughout the night, Sam woke up with an energy much more buoyant than the one he had fallen asleep with. He was determined to make today a good day. He was going to take a quick shower and then call Jess on his walk over to the hospital because he knew she would be up early for her shift at the café she worked at during weekday mornings. After that, he would seek out Dr. Cantwell and try to learn as much about Dean's condition as he could so that maybe he could help his brother out in some way. He thought about maybe apologizing to his father but the minute that thought sprung into his mind, Sam dismissed it. He wasn't ready to go that far. After all, the guy had socked him right in the face yesterday and hadn't even said sorry for it. No, Sam wasn't going to be the first one to apologize even if he shouldn't have said those things to John. He knew he'd crossed a line, which was precisely why he wasn't too bothered spitting out a chunk of cheek flesh as he rinsed his mouth. Sam had been roughed up before. By John. By Dean. By monsters. By other college guys during his first semester when he had been stupid enough to join the rugby team. Being hurt didn't bother him.

He dressed quickly after his shower and pulling a towel through his hair when John opened the door, wearing the same clothes as the last two days.

"Hey," Sam said, sticking his head around the bathroom door. "Is Dean okay?" John peered at his son from under heavy lids.

"I thought you were at the hospital," he mumbled.

"No I've been here – wait, does that mean you weren't at the hospital?" John shook his head and kicked off his shoes; they flung to the other side of the room, hitting the wall before landing on the carpet.

"Nope," John said now sitting down on the bed and peeling off his socks which joined the heap of shoes.

"So Dean's been alone all night?"

"I guess," John said. "I wasn't there and you weren't there so…yes." Sam's good mood was evaporating rapidly and as he pulled on his own shoes, he reminded himself to take deep breaths. The hospital had his number; if anything had happened, Sam would know. He would have woken up to the phone ringing. Dean was fine.

Still, Sam didn't like the idea of his brother just lying there with no company. And what if he had woken up? He would have thought Sam abandoned him. The youngest Winchester's stomach flipped.

"Where were you?" he asked.

"Nowhere."

But when John's head turned to answer the question, the smell drifted a few feet and Sam's entire body went stiff.

"Have you been _drinking?_"

"Quit it, Sam," John said, sounding much more like the father that Sam remembered from his youth. "I had two beers, that's it. I'm just exhausted."

"I was exhausted too! But I came back and slept, like a normal person. I didn't go find the nearest bar." John flinched but kept his gaze away from his son. He didn't want to see the disappointment in his son's eyes. He knew it was there. Sam was always so goddamned disappointed in John and it drove a stake through the older man's heart. He had been exhausted yes, but also so wired with the fear of losing Dean that he couldn't just lay on the hotel bed anymore.

"What were you thinking?" Sam continued, flailing a long arm in emphasis. He was burning again, letting the familiar fire flow through him until it consumed his whole body in anger. His father was such a shit.

"Looking for God," he thought he heard John mutter and Sam decided not to believe the fact he'd only had two beers.

"You better be sober the next time you show up at the hospital," he warned, shrugging on his coat, adjusting the collar as he stared hard at his father.

"I'm sober now," John insisted. "I told you, I'm tired."

"Sober, tired, and looking for God. I know, I heard you."

Sam left the room without giving his father a chance to make a bigger fool out of himself. He spent the walk across the parking lot trying to push the very idea of John Winchester out of his head. Knowing his father, he'd sleep off the many drinks with a long, long nap and for once, Sam was grateful for his father's notorious drunken stupors. That meant he could be alone with Dean, with no one to interrupt his guard duty.

Angie was back on duty when he pushed open the ICU doors and though she was talking to someone Sam didn't recognize, she waved to him and he lifted a hand in greeting. He was actually grateful to see the kind woman; it felt as if he'd known her for years instead of two days. He didn't trust anyone around his brother but Angie made it easier to watch everyone prodding at Dean.

Again, nothing had changed as Sam took his seat but he started babbling to Dean almost immediately, filling his brother in on the past couple days.

"They say you might be trying to get better," Sam told him. "And if you can hear me buddy, just know to keep fighting, okay? I'm gonna be right here when you wake up." He entwined his hand in his brother's, noting the extra IV line that had appeared overnight. "Look Dean, I know it might seem easier to just drift away. This life…well, it's not exactly a piece of peach pie, is it? It's painful and scary and there are so many bad things out there. I almost wouldn't blame you for checking out early. You've had so much shit to deal with over the years that this must seem like a vacation to you, doesn't it?"

Sam pulled in a wavering breath and leaned closer to his brother.

"But Dean, I promise that if you come back, it will be worth it. Your family is here, man. I'm here now and I'm not going anywhere. And Dad…" Sam hesitated then went on, "he's here for you. This is really messing him up, you know. You being so hurt and all. I'm not sure he'd make it through this if you…don't." Sam's fingers had moved to brush at his brother's hair and he rested his chin on the arm that was resting over the top rail of Dean's bed.

"And you know there might be bad things about this world, and I'm sure it's real nice where you might be going, but you have to consider all the good things that are down here." Sam cracked just the hint of a smile, recalling some of his brother's favorite vices. "Like all the hot blondes you could be picking up at bars because even though you say you don't have a type as long as they have a nice ass, I know you like blondes the best. Even better, think of all the blondes with_ accents,_ man. You can't miss out on that. And of course all that beer and pie. They probably don't have beer in heaven, you know. You have to consider that; it's a terrible selling point, isn't it? So why not stay here with us?"

Sam let out a sigh, rocking his chin to the side before refocusing back on his brother, voice getting softer.

"There are other reasons too, Dean. Like when you wake up in the morning and it's raining out and you know you have nowhere to be so you get to lay in bed under the covers and just listen to the rain hitting the roof. For you it's probably the roof of the Impala." Sam shrugged. "I kind of always liked riding in the Impala when it was bad weather. You and I would be in the backseat, sharing that green army blanket. Remember that thing? It was scratchy and smelled like an old lady but it was so warm. And we would just sit there listening to Dad's music, eating snacks without worrying about where all the crumbs were falling. Remember how we each used to pick a raindrop and then watch as they raced down the window? It was so dumb but we treated it like the Daytona 500."

Sam pressed his forehead against his arm and closed his eyes, biting into his lower lip to force the tears back. There was no reason to cry, not yet. He wasn't going to cry unless Dean died, that's what he'd promised himself.

"You have to remember, Dean," he whispered. "Remember all that stuff because those are the kinds of reasons you should stick around. You've got so much left to do. You're the one out of all of us who was going to make a difference in this shitty world. So just think about it, okay?" Sam finished, clearing his throat. "Don't go anywhere until you think about it." He watched Dean for a few more minutes in silence before the curtain opened and Angie walked in, pulling the curtain back in place around her.

"Good morning," she said.

"Hey," he said, expecting her to pull on a pair of gloves and start checking Dean's vitals but instead she plopped down in John's unoccupied chair across from Sam. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Here," she said, handing him a plastic wrapped sandwich. "I ran down to the cafeteria just before my break started and picked this up for you. Someone told me you didn't eat a thing yesterday." When Sam continued to stare blankly she rolled her eyes, "Marion. Marion told me."

"The nurse?" Angie laughed quietly.

"I find it hard to believe you've met another Marion since you've been here."

"Thanks," Sam said. "But I'm not hungry." The nurse raised her eyebrows and leaned back in the chair, folding her arms across her chest.

"Sam come on. You're super tall and probably still haven't stopped growing. Whether or not you think you're hungry, your body needs the nourishment."

"You sound an awful lot like a medical professional." She ignored his sarcasm, staring hard at the sandwich until he began picking at the plastic wrapping. Okay, maybe he was a little hungry. To his surprise, the sandwich wasn't that bad for having been wrapped in cellophane. The turkey was a little dry but there was enough mayo to balance it out and even some onions to make it more flavorful. It wasn't gourmet but Angie was right: his body appreciated it.

"That's better," she said as he bit into the second half. "I'm telling you, mothers always know best."

"Mothers?" Sam asked then did a re-calculation of the woman in front of him. He had initially thought she was young, maybe around Dean's age, but at her recent admission he could see that she had a few more lines to her face than he'd originally assumed. Maybe closer to thirty.

"Yep," she said proudly. "My little girl just turned eighteen months old."

"Oh," Sam said because he wasn't quite sure what to say to that. "Um, congratulations?" She smiled at his awkwardness.

"You know, I was thinking when I came in this morning that I don't know much about Dean. I mean, I know handsome over here has got some pretty eyes and that he doesn't it like when I touch him, but other than that…nothing."

"What do you want to know?" Sam asked cautiously, instantly wary that this was a ploy to uncover the real cause of Dean's injuries. But Angie just shrugged.

"What does he like to do? Does he have a girlfriend? Did he go to school? Play any sports? What's important to know about Dean Winchester?"

Sam considered the last question. Dean had done some impressive things in his life. Like killing his first werewolf at the ripe age of fourteen while John held the creature down as Sam watched from the passenger seat of the Impala. He was the only person Sam knew who could shoot just as cleanly with his left hand as with his right. There was also that time he and Sam had gone on a Hunt – just a few weeks before Sam left for Stanford – and Dean had single-handedly taken down two ghouls after Sam had gotten himself locked in a closet.

"He didn't go to school," Sam settled on. "Didn't even finish high school actually. Not that he's not smart," Sam said quickly. "He's one of the smartest guys I know. It's just school was a little…conventional for Dean. Plus we moved around a lot so it was hard to keep up with schoolwork."

"Okay," Angie said, watching Dean. "So not an academic. I can appreciate that. It took me two tries to get through nursing school."

"Really?" Sam was surprised. Angie seemed like the type of person who had been top of her class in everything.

"Yeah. I got, uh, led astray my first time around."

"It happens," Sam said.

"It does," she agreed. "So what does Dean do if he's not in school?"

_Oh nothing real exciting, just hunts down things with fangs the size of your fingers and decapitates them with a machete._

"He's a mechanic." It was the cover Dean insisted on ever since he had dropped out of school during his senior year and by now it didn't really feel like a lie to Sam. Dean was as good at fixing cars as he was hunting and if he ever got out of this life, Sam was sure that's the direction his brother would go in. Angie wrinkled her nose.

"Like with grease and those weird blue jumpsuits?" Sam chuckled.

"Yeah. Dean loves cars. Our dad used to be a mechanic and he taught Dean everything and then Dean got better than him at fixing the car. If there's one thing Dean really loves, it's his car."

"Yeah?" Angie said, one eyebrow cocked. "Go ahead and tell me what it is, though I can't promise to be impressed. I know nothing about cars. I let my husband deal with that."

"It's a 1967 Chevy Impala. Black. Here," he said, reaching into his pocket for his phone. "Dean sends me pictures sometimes. I'm sure I've got one. Yeah, here it is." He passed the phone over and let Angie have the phone. She stared at the grainy photo for a moment then nodded slowly.

"Okay, I can see why he'd be into that. It's very pretty. And big." She handed the phone back to him.

"He calls it Baby," Sam said. "When I say he loves it, I mean it."

"To each his own," Angie conceded and then pulled her own phone out of her scrubs. "Now I get to show you my baby." She scrolled through a few pictures before showing him the screen and Sam was looking at a photo of a small child, a little girl with the bluest eyes he'd ever seen. She was laughing and trying to grab the camera and he had to admit that although he didn't have much use for children, this one was particularly cute.

"You win," he said and she laughed. "What's her name?"

"Savannah. Best thing that ever happened to me."

"That's great," Sam said and he meant. He might not be overly fond of kids now but he and Jess had discussed the subject once or twice and had agreed they both wanted a family down the road. But hopefully that road was very very long.

"My break's almost over," Angie said. "But I'm glad we had a chance to talk. And now I know what to talk about with Dean when he wakes up." Her eyes flickered to the chart attached to the end of Dean's bed and professionalism seeped into her features. "I heard he didn't wake up at all yesterday."

"No," Sam said.

"Waiting for me, handsome?" she said, standing and this time slipping on the latex gloves. "You just didn't want to do anything exciting without me around, did you? I saw that you got your lungs working though." She shot a glance at Sam. "That's an encouraging sign."

"So I've been told."

"Aaaaannd," Angie drew the word out as she flipped the blankets up again and started removing the bandages, revealing Dean's torn body. Sam looked away, concentrating instead on his brother's face. "There's no sign of infection which is just short of a miracle. Who knew what kind of nasty bacteria that mountain lion was carrying around." This time Sam was ready when Dean reacted to Angie's touch, gentle as it was.

The guttural noises started just as his hand twitched underneath Sam's fingers.

"It's okay," Sam soothed. "She's helping out." But Dean didn't seem to agree because his responses grew more jarring. He shuddered away from the nurse's hands, pressing his body into the bed in an effort to get away. Sam switched his gaze back and forth between Dean and the heart monitor, which was just as unhappy as his brother.

"Easy, Dean," Angie murmured. "Sam, try to calm him down. His heart shouldn't be stressed at all. It could set off a heart attack."

"Dean, it's okay buddy," he tried again, stroking his brother's hair. "You got into a little trouble on a Hunt and now we're fixing you up. But if you don't stay still, you'll make it worse. You don't want that, right?" It wasn't helping and Angie's glances at the heart monitor grew more harried but she had to finish before she could sedate him. Sam swallowed hard as Dean's body jolted again as if shocked by electricity; he could see his brother's eyes moving rapidly under the closed lids.

There was one more thing Sam could try. Something Dean had told him a long time ago when they were kids and had made Sam swear never to repeat. But if he was about to lose Dean to a freaking heart attack, now was not the time to honor childhood promises.

"_Hey Jude, don't make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better_." Sam's voice lurched up and down as he found the right rhythm. "_Remember to let her into your heart. Then you can start to make it better_." Dean's hands were still twitching but his eyes had stopped moving and this time Sam knewhis brother had turned his head toward him. He was listening.

"_Hey Jude, don't be afraid. You were made to go out and get her. The minute you let her under your skin, then you begin to make it better. And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain. Don't carry the world upon your shoulders_." Sam's voice was anything but steady, but it was helping. Dean's body was still under Angie's quick movements and the noises had quieted to whimpers that tore at Sam's heart.

"That's right," Sam said. "That's the song Mom used to sing to you as a lullaby, isn't it?" A whine came from Dean's throat. "Okay, I'll keep going. Just for you." He took a deep breath, his tongue darting out to wet his lips and continued, "_For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool by making his world a little colder. Nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah. Hey Jude, don't let me down, you have found her, now go and get her. Remember to let her into your heart, then you can start to make it better_."

By the time Sam finished the third verse, Angie was taping new bandages in place and the heart monitor wasn't shrieking quite as loudly.

"There you go, Dean," she said softly. "All done. I'm so sorry, buddy." It was odd; Sam thought he detected a quiver in the nurse's voice but when she turned around to him, she flashed him her usual smile.

"Don't know what we would do without you. Don't know what Dean would do without you. I'm going to go get the doctor. I'll be back in ten minutes, okay? Just keep him calm and hit the red button if there's a problem." Sam nodded and she left.

And even after all that had just occurred in the last five minutes, Sam wasn't quite prepared when he turned around and saw that Dean's eyes were open and staring right at him.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **Hey guys! Heads up, I just moved back to the States (today) from being abroad for six months so I'm sorry if there are typos (I proofed on the plane). Also, my updates won't be as regular - they'll still be frequent, just not on Mondays and Thursdays at 2:30. Have a good read!

* * *

Dean was sitting by the edge of a highway drinking a beer and leaning against the trunk of the Impala. Next to the empty road behind him was a pristine lake that looked as if he was the first person to discover it. No cabins, nobody fishing, not even any trees cut down around the border. He couldn't for the life of him remember where he was or if he was on a Hunt, but it didn't concern him. For whatever reason, he was content to let those unimportant questions slide right out of his mind as he cracked open a second beer, smacking his lips loudly at the taste.

Damn, this was good beer. _Really _good. He squinted down at the label, recognizing the brand as one he never bought because it was expensive. He panicked for a moment, thinking he might have spent the rest of his money without remembering but the panic receded when he pulled a wad of cash out of his jacket packet. A very thick wad. Too thick. Where did he get all this money?

Weird.

But Dean wasn't one to argue with a practically gourmet beer in his hand and a small bank in his pocket so he shrugged and decided to figure it out letter. He considered himself a pro at putting things off. The only thing off about this scene that bothered him is that he was alone. Not that he usually minded being alone. Sam hadn't been around for a few years – although Dean couldn't exactly remember why – and John frequently took off without telling Dean, leaving the young man with the Impala and no instructions. Right now though, being alone felt _wrong._ As if he was supposed to be meeting someone here and had arrived too late. He checked his phone for texts but there weren't any and no matter how hard he wracked his brain, he couldn't remember talking to anyone lately. Actually, Dean couldn't remember much of anything. Like where he had just driven from. Or where he spent the last few nights.

He was considering breaking the rule and calling John before he called first when a pain in his gut had him doubled over.

"Agghh," he moaned as the pain came again, forcing him to drop the beer as he fell to his knees. He ripped up his shirt, sure he was going to find some type of wound but his stomach was unmarked. His head dropped into his hands as the pain came yet again, exploding inside him as if a firework had been set off behind his navel. It grew so intense that the next time Dean went to groan, he vomited instead, all over himself. He didn't have any time to think about how disgusting that was because he was too busy curled up in the fetal position, rocking against the gravel. He didn't know if it was the throwing up but his throat felt swollen and sore, as if he was getting the tonsillitis that had plagued him as a child.

Dean was about to full on pass out when something distracted him for just a minute. Music. Well, not music exactly because it was just a voice, a whispered version of a song. What the hell was it? He tried to hoist himself off the ground but then the pain tore through him again and he whimpered instead.

"Mom?" he choked out, pressing his forehead into the rough ground. He wanted his mother. He wanted this to end, to just black out already to escape the pain. With his hands clutching at his stomach, Dean wondered briefly if he was dying. And when the blackness descended over him a second later, he decided he didn't care if he died as long as the pain went away.

Maybe he would get to see his mother.

xxx

Sam gasped at the sight of the familiar eyes gazing at him and all thoughts of calling for Angie or pushing the red button evaporated as his brother blinked. They stared at each other for a split second before Dean started moving. His brother threw his head back against the pillow, the calm look in his eyes transforming into one that was filled with pain and fear. The hand nearest Sam opened and closed in a fist, scraping at the blankets. Something in between a whine and a howl ripped it's way out of Dean's throat as his whole body arched upwards, heels and shoulders pressed into the bed as Dean tried to escape whatever was holding him down.

"Dean, stop!" Sam said, leaning over his brother. "You have to stop. You're going to hurt yourself!" Except Dean seemed to have discovered the large tube stuck down his throat and the whine-howl had turned to choking noises and Sam really wanted to rip that damn thing out of his throat but instead put his hand on Dean's shoulder as his brother tossed his head like a wild horse.

"Dean, it's me, Sam! Focus on me, buddy. You have to stop, okay? Calm down and I'll explain everything." There was a desperate pleading to Sam's words but that seemed to have no effect on Dean who continued thrashing.

"What's going on?" Angie was back, trailing just behind a peeved looking Dr. Cantwell. They both rushed to Dean's side.

"What happened?" Dr. Cantwell asked sharply.

"I don't know," Sam said. "He just woke up and started going crazy."

"Dean!" Dr. Cantwell said firmly, right in his brother's face. "Can you hear me?" He took a hand and gripped Dean's chin so that Sam's brother was forced to stop moving his head. "Dean, my name is Dr. Cantwell. You're in the hospital after an animal attack." Sam wasn't close enough to see how his brother was reacting because Angie was blocking his view as she also leaned over Dean. But Sam could see when his brother's legs jerked again under the blankets.

"He's not going to calm down," Dr. Cantwell said. "Give him a low dose of Ativan."

"What are you giving him?" Sam demanded.

"A sedative," the doctor said without looking up. He was flashing a penlight in Dean's eyes and Dean tried in vain to shrink away from the harsh brightness. There wasn't much stopping Sam from throwing the guy off his brother. His brother had just woken up; he didn't need anyone sticking a light in his face.

"There we go," Angie said, injecting the drug into Dean's system. The effect was almost immediate; his brother's body relaxed and then went limp and the doctor removed his hand from Dean's chin. Angie moved in and adjusted the ventilator that had been knocked askew and then rechecked Dean's bandages.

"His eyes are reacting to light," Dr. Cantwell told Sam as he wrote it down on that stupid clipboard.

_No shit, doc._

"And while we don't want him in distress because of his heart and injuries, he seems to be at least semi-aware of what's going on. These are all reassuring signs. We'll have to keep him sedated for now so he doesn't cause permanent injury to his throat or rip out any of his stitches."

"Fine," Sam said. "Is there anything else we can do?"

"Not at the moment," the doctor said. "Just try and keep him as calm as possible. Call me if there are problems." Then he walked out, leaving a shaken Sam behind with Angie who was still fussing over Dean.

"You sure like to cause a scene," Angie was saying. "Go big or go home, I guess." Sam moved forward and saw that Dean was still awake although his eyes were only half-opened. Still, when Sam spoke they followed his voice.

"Trying to get everyone's attention," Sam said. "Just like when we were little." He wet a washcloth that was laid out and wiped the sweat from Dean's forehead. His brother's gaze never left his face. "You just wanted us to notice you, didn't you? Well, you did a good job. Everyone came running." A soft whimper came from Dean. "Shhh," Sam said. "You're okay. And for once in your life, I'm going take care of you instead of the other way around." Dean's eyes drifted another centimeter shut even though Sam could tell he was fighting the medicine. Angie was standing back, just watching the interaction between the brothers.

"How about I sing just a little more," Sam offered. "But don't get used to it. I have to save my voice for all my cabaret performances." He forced a half-smile then picked up where he had left off: "_Hey Jude, don't let me down, you have found her, now go and get her. Remember to let her into your heart, then you can start to make it better. So let it out and let it in, hey Jude, begin. You're waiting for someone to perform with, and don't you know that it's just you, hey Jude, you'll do. The movement you need is on your shoulder. Nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah yeah_."

Dean's eyes closed all the way but he fell asleep with one finger wrapped tight around Sam's thumb.

xxx

When Dean opened his eyes, the lake, the road, the Impala were all gone. Nothing was familiar except the pain, which – incredibly – had gotten worse. There was just light at first, a harsh believably white light. He pressed his eyes closed against the illumination that felt like it was setting his body on fire. _Everything hurt. _The sudden light had made him aware that his head was pounding with the force of a thousand jackhammers, so much so that it almost made him forget the searing sensation that was his entire midsection. He pried one eye open than the other, squinting against the glow although it seemed dimmer this time.

_Fuck this._

Something was beginning to take shape and Dean was sure he was no longer anywhere outside and thought rather somberly of that beer he'd been forced to abandon. He tried to hold on to a single thought but his mind was shuffling them like a deck of cards; every time he got a glimpse of something solid, it slipped out of sight and was replaced with something new. Never had Dean experienced something so disorienting. He blinked and then there was a shape standing over him, fuzzy through the pain and Dean's inability to focus his eyes. But he could tell the shape was dark and there was a sense of relief at the thought at least he wasn't blind. He'd pieced together enough to figure out that there was something very wrong with him; but as long as he wasn't blind or paralyzed – the pain shooting down to his ankles was proof against the latter – then everything would be fine. He would be fine. Well, he would be fine once he threw up again because right now his stomach was churning like a muddy river and it was creeping up his esophagus.

The dark shape moved to his left as Dean tried to roll over only to find he couldn't move. Not like he was stuck under something or tied down, he just couldn't move; his body wasn't listening to him. It was horrifying. He tried again, a growl of frustration attempting to wrangle itself out his lips only to be stopped because there was something jammed down his throat. And that's when Dean figured out he couldn't take a breath.

His automatic response was to dislodge whatever was choking him, which was easier said than done when he couldn't get his freaking arms to move. His head however was free to do as it please and he swung it back and forth in vain. All that happened was that the thing shifted and bright starbursts replaced Dean's vision as the inside of his throat chafed. The pain was a creature now, ripping through him as if it had claws, as if it was going to tear him from the inside out into as many little pieces as possible. There was no way Dean was going to win, not this time. A frustrated tear leaked out of his left eye and he rocked against the creature, using the last of his energy to force his body upwards in an attempt to throw the thing off him. His vision hadn't returned all the way and the white spots continued to dance in front of him, teasing him with speckles of reality. Dean hardly noticed the dark shape was gone.

Then somehow the creature got hold of his face even though it was still hacking away at his torso and Dean's eyes opened wide because if he closed them he might not wake up again.

Just minutes ago – although it felt like years – Dean had longed for Death, longed for something to take away this pain, but all he could feel now was the need to survive coursing through him. He couldn't go. There was something he was supposed to do or say or fix and he couldn't let go without finishing whatever job the pain-creature had disturbed.

It was only when something forcibly flipped up the lids on his eyes that Dean lashed out again, wanting to give a shout of joy as one of his legs moved. Not enough apparently, because whatever was in front of him was shining some sort of laser right in Dean's face and he was pretty sure he had never encountered something as supernatural as this. Maybe it had a venom that made the victim go absolutely nuts. It would explain why Dean wasn't all the way paralyzed; the creature had no need as it held him captive by the sensation of tearing flesh.

And then it was over and Dean's body just gave out. His scrabbling fingers stilled and there was no way he was moving his head anymore even as the pressure on his chin lifted. This was it: his death. He had tried so hard to fight but he just didn't have in him anymore. He wondered if John would be able to find his body or if maybe the creature would eat him. But even as he had that alarming thought, the pain was seeping away, filtering out of him rapidly. The white spots finally stopped dancing and slinked away to the corners of his vision. There was no white light, no tunnel, only a pressure sinking into his veins and a darkness blanketing the edges of his consciousness.

He wasn't sure if it was an illusion that the creature was dredging up for him, giving him a twisted sort of peace in his final moments, but he swore that the dark shape hovering above him again was Sam. His brother Sam. But it couldn't be because Sam was gone and he hadn't come home ever and Dean was sure that the shape was not Sam.

Except that Sam-but-not-Sam was talking to him, laying a cool cloth on Dean's face, grabbing one of Dean's useless hands and folding it into his own. Dean clutched at the fingers and the same whisper of music from before floated over him. There were no words, just a distant humming but Dean heard it, some part deep in him recognized it even if he couldn't put an exact finger on what was so familiar about the tune. He felt the last parts of his body sink away and there was only one thought as he let his eyes close all the way, grateful that the creature had given this to him even as it killed him.

_I'm sorry, Sam._

* * *

**A/N: **Do you guys like seeing things from Dean's point of view? It's fun to write but I don't want it to be too confusing. Let me know!


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **Thanks for all the great responses! Check out my new oneshot "No Fortunate Sons" if you feel like it :)

* * *

John really did have only two beers. Not even two because the second he left half empty on the bar counter, shoving off the stool with a sore back. He felt so old these days, stiff when he woke, stiff when he went to stand, stiff as he laid down to go to bed.

His back felt like a plank of wood as he stood over the hotel room sink, shaving away the week of scruff that had been growing untamed. It made him look like a homeless person, at least that's what Mary used to tell him. He wasn't so great about keeping it trimmed when he was on the road and definitely not during a hunt. John wouldn't have even considered shaving with Dean in the hospital – maybe on his deathbed – but after his talk with Ellie yesterday, John thought maybe he could try a little harder. That meant actually making an effort, especially now with Sam hanging around.

_Sober, tired, and looking for God._

John snorted at his reflection. He might be trying harder but he was still sure that there was no such thing as God. What God – a supposedly righteous being of greatness – would take the life of John's son? John's innocent, clean-souled son who sometimes got himself in trouble but did whatever it took to please those around him. Dean tried so hard. What kind of God punishes the good? Not the God Ellie spoke of. He wished he had even a fraction of the faith that woman had; not even faith in religion, just plain old faith.

It'd been such an easy few years with Dean, the two of them making a vicious hunting duo, slaying the things that most people had nightmares about. It wasn't the most American style of parenting but the two of them had good times on the road, drinking in dives, eating off the dashboard of the Impala. Dean even appreciated the same music as John. It was a lifestyle that John was content with and he imagined Dean was too; the kid had never shown any signs that he wanted out. Not like Sam who had been whining about since the very beginning.

There was no doubt that Sam was feeling his brother's loss like the absence of a lung. John wasn't blind to the brothers' codependency, even with the fact they hadn't seen much of each other in the past few years, he understood those two boys had something between them that was as rare as some of the creatures they hunted. So when Sam had started mouthing off and saying that nasty stuff to John, he knew that it was because Sam was scared and freaked out of his mind. And it was the similarly freaked out part of John that had punched Sam. He wasn't proud of it, the fact that he had laid a finger on one of his children for the first time in his life and it had created a ball of guilt in his gut that he couldn't get rid of. Sure, in the initial hours after hitting Sam, he hadn't been a hint of apologetic for what he'd done. Then he had time to calm down and he talked to Ellie and watched the way she was losing her daughter and after that it made John queasy to look at Sam. That's the real reason he had left the room left night. He couldn't sleep with Sam lying in the bed next to him, sleeping on his back so his bruised face didn't touch the pillow. It made John sick, had made him so uncomfortable he had to leave so he wouldn't be reminded of what he'd done with every breath from the other side of the room.

You don't hit your children.

He had been against any kind of physical punishment from day one. It was something Mary didn't particularly agree with; she hadn't minded spanking Dean every so often when the mischievous little boy got into real trouble. But John always walked out of the room, shutting the door because Dean learned quickly to cry out for his father.

It's just that he couldn't get Sam's words out of his head.

_Are you giving up on him_? _You'd probably be relieved if he died, wouldn't you?_

No! John had wanted to shout back, wanted to scream himself hoarse with the word until the last of his voice was painted on the hospital walls. How could Sam think that? The boys were everything to him and he would never give up on either of them as long as there was a lingering breath in his body. But John was not good with words, had never been good with them, and so his fist has ended the conversation he could not.

He wondered if he would ever get used to the smell of the hospital, the sharp scent that clung to his clothes and skin. The only fond memories he had of the institution was when both the boys were born. Like he'd told Sam, there had been a blizzard happening when Mary went into labor and the journey to the hospital had certainly been an experience that was etched into his memory forever.

_"John, maybe we should call an ambulance," Mary said from where she was laying on the couch as her husband made his second trip back into the house, shaking snow from his hair like a dog._

_ "Why? Is something wrong?"_

_ "No," Mary said, eyes twinkling at John's frenzied expression. You'd think he was the one about to give birth. "But it seems awfully snowy out there. You're covered in it." The ex-marine looked down at the powder coating his pants and jacket and shook his head, looking embarrassed._

_ "I, uh, slipped," he said and Mary let out a laugh then turned into a gasp as a contraction hit and she dug her fingernails into the fabric of the couch. John's freezing hand was on hers in an instant and the chill brought her back from the pain in her stomach._

_ "You good?" John said a minute later and she nodded._

_ "This little one wants out," she said breathlessly. "He's not going to wait much longer." John fetched her coat and shoes, helping her into them before scooping Mary up bridal style and carrying her through the door._

_ "If you drop me John Winchester, I'm leaving and never coming back."_

_ "I'm not going to drop you," he said, never more sure of anything in his life. It was dark and the snow was coming down in flakes the size of potato chips but despite the slippery ground, John got all three of them safely to the Impala._

_ "You warmed her up for me?" Mary said, extending out her numb fingers to the car's heat vents._

_ "Of course I did," John said, sliding in next to her. "And your bag is in the back, along with the car seat and the windows are wiped down and the driveway is shoveled."_

_ "What did I do to deserve you?" Mary mumbled, clenching her jaw as another wave of pain rode through her. The baby wasn't even supposed to come for another two weeks but she'd been cleaning up after dinner when her water broke all over the kitchen floor._

_ "So anxious," she said, dragging the tips of her fingers over her stomach. "He's going to be one of a kind, John."_

_ "He?" her husband said curiously, backing the Impala out of the driveway and pulling carefully onto the street, which hadn't been plowed yet. They had decided not to find out the sex of the baby because Mary claimed she wanted to be surprised and that it didn't matter either way. John just did whatever his wife wanted these days but he agreed: he'd be equally happy with either a girl or a boy. Mary shrugged._

_ "I just have a feeling, that's all. He's got some fight in him, I can tell."_

_ "Of course he does," John said, adopting the masculine adverb. "Just look at you, sweetie. Any kid of yours is going to have one hell of a fight in them."_

_ Twenty minutes later, they hadn't even made it halfway to the hospital and Mary was starting to doubt her husband's ability to navigate through six inches of now. Already, the car had almost spun out twice._

_ "John, I am not having my child in this car," she threatened, voice rising at the prospect of having to deliver her first baby in the backseat of a Chevy Impala._

_ "I think that would be cool," John teased, eyes on the road. His knuckles were white where he gripped the steering wheel tight. Then he frowned. "As long as the stains came out." Mary let out a noise that halfway between a snort and a growl. She'd been against this stupid Impala in the first place: it was long and huge and just such a man toy. Thankfully they got to the main highway a few minutes after and it was easier to drive where the plows had managed to clear the roads._

_ John had been horrified to learn early on in Mary's pregnancy that labor could last a full day or sometimes even longer, especially for first-time mothers. He had prepared himself to be in this for the long haul, so when Mary gave birth only three hours later, he wasn't quite ready when the doctor handed him a squirming mess of crying infant._

_ "What do I do?" John asked the nurse who was standing at his side. She chuckled at his petrified expression._

_ "You're doing just fine, Dad. Remember to support the head and hold tight. The only thing you could do wrong is drop him."_

_ "John, let me see," Mary said in a tired voice and John took slow deliberate steps across the room, terrified that the six pound baby was somehow going to do a backflip out of his arms. _

_ "You were right, Mary," he said softly, placing the infant in her arms. "It's a boy." As if he knew he was lying against the chest of his mother, the infant quieted and turned his face up._

_ "Oh," Mary said in a whisper, eyes filling with a mother's love. "He's looking at me."_

_ He was. The eyes that would become a stunning green were still a muted grey and staring straight up at Mary. John had read the baby books that sat on Mary's bedside table at home, he knew that babies were basically useless and emotionless for weeks after birth but he swore that the little one cuddled in the arms of his wife was wearing a look of pure adoration. And that's when John fell in love with his son._

_ "Dean," Mary said, running the tip of her finger over her son's bump of a nose. The baby yawned, his lips making a perfect O and then his eyes finally blinked shut. "Little Dean. You're going to make lots of noise, aren't you? Get yourself in lots of trouble I bet. But don't worry, Mommy and Daddy are here to protect you. Forever and always, little one."_

When he got to Dean's room in the ICU, Angie was just finishing up with whatever the nurses were always doing.

"Hello Mr. Winchester," she said. "Sam stepped out for a moment to get some fresh air. It was kind of a difficult morning."

"What happened?" he said, looking to his son, who appeared the same as before.

"Why don't I get Dr. Cantwell?" Angie said. "He can explain things thoroughly to you." John nodded and sat in Sam's abandoned chair after she left.

"What's going on with you, kiddo?" John said, reaching out to stroke his son's hair. "You know I was just thinking about the day you born. I was so freaked out but your Mom, she was just so excited to finally meet you." He let out a hoarse laugh. "She got so mad when she thought you were going to come out in the Impala. Then again, you probably would have liked that just fine." John swallowed hard, tracing a finger over's Dean's still features, avoiding the healing scratches that marred his son's face. "She knew you were gonna be trouble, Dean. But she also knew that you were going to be a fighter." He lowered his voice to just a whisper, a barely audible sigh of words that drifted over Dean's body and through the air.

"I'm glad you're fighting, son."

"Mr. Winchester?" John sat up to find Dr. Cantwell standing at the entrance of the room.

"Doctor," John replied, nodding. "What's going on? I heard there were problems." The doctor sat down in the other chair, resting his hands loosely on his knees.

"Dean was showing signs of discomfort while the nurse changed his bandages this morning. Because your other son, Sam, and Angie managed to calm him down, we didn't think there would be an issue. However, Dean went on to wake up and…while his reaction wasn't uncommon, it was considered dangerous." John's throat felt tight as he managed to ask,

"What happened?" Dr. Cantwell pursed his lips, eyes flickering to the boy in the bed.

"When he woke, Dean panicked and managed to thrash around quite a bit before we got him settled down. He wasn't responding to verbal cues so we had no choice but to medically sedate him. The real problem is going to be if he continues to react with such agitation. At this point, his heart is too weak to be put under the stress of going through multiple scenarios like the one that occurred this morning."

"So what do we do?" John asked, heart sinking to his stomach. This didn't sound good at all. When would this kid get a break? It wasn't enough that he'd been at Death's door forty-eight hours ago, bleeding out on the floor of an abandoned warehouse?

"It's a bit of a Catch-22," the doctor said with a grimace. "We want to encourage Dean to wake up; the longer he stays unconscious, the greater risk of brain damage and long term unresponsiveness there is. It's also problematic to his heart to keep him under heavy sedation. However, it's just as problematic if he keeps becoming distressed upon waking up. We'll do our best to keep him calm and comfortable, manage his pain levels etc."

"Okay," John said, not sure what else to day. None of this sounded like good news. It sounded as if Dean was getting worse and the possibility of escape out of this horrific situation was growing narrower and narrower.

"I only want you to be aware that it's still very much touch and go and that the next several days, the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours especially, will be crucial."

"Dean's a fighter," mumbled John.

"I believe you," Dr. Cantwell said, resting a hand on John's arm briefly. "To be honest, I didn't expect him to pull through the first night. He's certainly trying to figure his way out of this one. He's a special kid, Mr. Winchester."

"I know," John said and they both turned to stare at Dean.

"We are slowly trying to wean him off the ventilator. His lungs are continuing to hold their own so that's good news. His pupillary light reflex – how his eyes react to light – is also stronger than before. These are small signs that your son is doing everything in his power to pull through." The doctor seemed to hesitate for a moment then plunged on, voice low with trepidation. "But his body has been severely damaged and even if your son has the will to live, sometimes it's just not enough to get the physical body to work right. Despite what people like to think, humans are delicate and our bodies function very scientifically. If just one thing goes wrong…"

"You're not overly optimistic, are you?" John said sarcastically. Dr. Cantwell raised his hands a couple inches in a defensive gesture.

"I just want you to be able to approach this from every angle. Of course we will do everything in our power to make sure Dean walks out of this hospital. I promise you that."

"Sorry," John said, apologizing for his earlier tone. "I know you all are working hard. I'm just worried."

"I understand, Mr. Winchester," the doctor said, standing. "Please let me know if you need anything else. I'll be back later to check on Dean."

John waited a few moments after he left to grab Dean's hand.

"Hear all that, kiddo? Seems like the odds are stacked against you. But this isn't our first challenge isn't it? And you've got me and Sammy to help you. Neither one of us are going anywhere. I'm going to say here and protect you, Dean. I didn't before and I'm sorry. But goddammit, you live through this and every last breath of my body will be to protect you boys. You deserve that."

"Dad?"

"Hey, Sam." His younger son's eyes were narrowed and searching, watching his father for signs of inebriation but the man sitting beside the bed seemed fully sober. When he was sure John was okay to be in the room, he took a seat next to him.

"I just talked to the doctor," John said. "He told me about this morning. I'm sorry I wasn't here."

"It was rough," Sam said, giving a heavy sigh. There was an instant where John wanted to wrap his arms around the boy, to hold him the way he used to when he was a child. Sam's shoulders were slumped forward in a perpetual grimace these days, the boy was growing into more of a shadow as the hours went by. "Did the doctor say anything else?" John decided to keep the doctor's cautioning words to himself.

"Just that they're keeping him sedated for now so he doesn't make things worse."

"He didn't even recognize me," Sam said dully, running a tired hand over his face. "He just looked right through me."

"Sam, he's got to be so disoriented. Remember that he still doesn't know what happened, probably doesn't understand why he's hurting."

"What if he's mad at me?" Sam said, almost whispered. He couldn't bring himself to even look at his father, could hardly believe he was talking about this. But it was a fear that had been gnawing at him since the moment he stepped foot in the hospital a few days ago.

"He's not mad at you," John said. "That I know. I don't think this kid will ever be mad at you, Sam." Sam shook his head, hair flopping wildly as he dug his fingernails into his palms, urging back the threat of tears.

"I just walked out on him. Didn't even say goodbye. I was so mad at you that I forgot to say goodbye to Dean."

"He understands. He's not mad, Sam. He's just struggling right now with everything; it's not you." The youngest Winchester just stared straight ahead and John had his doubts he was even listening to him. Judging by the tortured expression he wore and the deep grooves worn into his palms, Sam was mentally abusing himself harshly for that night three years ago. The purple bruise made the rest of his face look especially pale and in that moment, John wasn't sure who looked worse: the son sitting next to him or the son lying in the hospital bed. John reached out a hand tentatively and placed it on Sam's back only to have the boy jerk out from under his touch, head falling into his hands as he moved away from his father.

John tried not to feel too disappointed. A day ago he had hit Sam in the face, it was probably natural that he didn't want John touching him at all. Still, the paternal instinct that had never quite died all the way rose in the Hunter, but he swallowed it back down and set it aside for a time – hopefully soon – when he would get a chance to use it.


	9. Chapter 9

Twenty-four hours later, they removed the ventilator and the two other Winchesters walked in to find Dean breathing by himself with only the help of a pair of clear oxygen tubes.

"We took it out a couple hours ago," Marion said. "And his lungs have been coping quite nicely actually. We'll keep a close eye on him but I have a feeling he isn't going to need to be re-intubated."

"Did he wake up at all?" Sam asked, taking a sip of coffee and staring over the Styrofoam cup at his brother. It was incredible how much better his brother looked without the large tube shoved down his throat and he definitely didn't miss the annoying hiss of the machine as it did the work of his brother's lungs.

"Not really," Marion said. "I was with him through the night but we kept him pretty sedated hoping that would make him more comfortable. I think the plan is to ease up on the sedation slowly and see how he reacts. Every day – or every couple days – we'll give him a lower dose and see how he adjusts to it."

"So just more waiting?" Sam said, trying not to sound disappointed. It hadn't even been a full week but Sam was growing frustrated and impatient by the lack of his brother's progress.

"Unfortunately," Marion said. "Keep talking to him though. And make sure you two get something to eat," she chastised. "You're both looking a little peaky these days."

"Thank you," John said.

"You gotta wake up," Sam said to his brother as he took a seat and tossed one leg over the other. "Or at least do something more exciting," he said, taking another drink.

"Sam," John half-scolded. "He'll come 'round when he's ready." But inside, he couldn't help but feel the same way. It wasn't that he wanted to rush Dean into anything and he was deeply encouraged by the absence of the ventilator, but it hard to sit there and do nothing. He couldn't wait to actually see his son open his eyes.

They sat in near silence for a couple hours, thumbing through a pile of uninteresting magazines Marion had dropped off. John was just about to take a walk when he saw someone familiar pass by the room. He stood, telling Sam he would be back and then followed the figure.

"Ellie!" he said quietly and the old woman turned, giving him a smile.

"Hello, John."

"You're still here? I thought you'd gone home." The smile drooped a little and the old woman shook her head.

"No. Liz's husband is stuck in an airport in Japan. He was on a business trip when the Japanese airlines went on strike. He doesn't know when he can get home but of course we're waiting for him. To say goodbye."

"Would you like me to sit with you?" John offered and the woman nodded.

"That would be nice. It gets lonely here."

"I know," John said. "I have Sam but he's not really talking to me at the moment. Still angry, I think."

"He'll get over it soon," Ellie said as they approached Elizabeth's bed. The woman was in the same position as a couple days ago and John picked up her hand, surprised at how cold her fingers seemed. When he let go, he made sure to tuck her hand under the blankets.

"I don't think so," John said, thinking of the rigid posture of his son as he deliberately didn't look at his father. "I messed up pretty bad. I hit him. I don't think he'll ever forgive me for that. Plus he thinks I was the one that caused Dean's accident."

"An animal attack?" Ellie said curiously. "Surely you didn't send the animal after your own son?"

"No," John said, giving her a tight-lipped smile. "But I let him go off alone and I knew it was dangerous. I knew there were wild animals in the area."

"It was just an accident," Ellie murmured. "Don't blame yourself, John, or you won't come out of this in one piece. As for Sam, he's hurting just like you. It might take him a while to realize that but he'll come around."

"I hope so."

"How's your other boy doing? Still getting better?" John sighed heavily, his shoulders lifting to he ceiling before dropping again.

"Kind of. He's off the ventilator as of this morning but they have to keep him sedated. Apparently he freaked out pretty badly when he woke up yesterday. Sam was there and I think it scared him." He bit the inside of his lower lip to keep his voice from shaking. "Are you here by yourself?" he said, changing the conversation. He didn't want to talk about the possibility of Dean waking up when there was a woman in front of him who would never open her eyes again. He couldn't imagine making the decision Ellie was making, couldn't imagine actively giving Dean up, no matter what the doctors said.

"Oh no," she said. "My husband is here." She glanced up at the clock outside the room. "He should be here any minute. He's watching Liz's little boy since the child can't come into the ICU for more than a few minutes."

"How old is he?" John asked and Ellie smiled her first real smile since she'd been in the hospital.

"Jeremy is five and he's certainly giving my husband a run for his money. I don't think Tom has moved this much in years."

"Nana!" a voice called and a second later a young boy came rushing around the age of the curtain and flung himself into the legs of his grandmother.

"Shhh," Ellie said, picking the boy up and settling him in her lap. He had sandy hair and blue eyes that gaze out at John with curiosity.

"Who's that?" he asked, pointing right in the Hunter's face. Ellie pulled his arm down to his body and hugged him tight, whispering in his ear.

"A new friend," she said. "His name is John."

"My mama's here," Jeremy told John. "She's sleeping."

"I see that," John said. "I met her a little while ago. She's very pretty." Jeremy nodded seriously.

"My mama is beautiful," he said. "But she's tired so we have to be quiet." John just then noticed an older man who was standing at the entrance of the room. He was tall, about John's height, but had considerably less hair and wore wire-rimmed glasses. John stood and reached out a hand.

"I'm John. I'm so sorry about your daughter."

"Tom. And thank you for your condolences. Sorry about the active little one." The man's face was exhausted, lines worn deep around his eyes and mouth and his expression was bottomless with grief.

"It's no problem. I've got two boys of my own. They're quite a bit older but just as much trouble."

"Are you here visiting family?" Tom said, nodding at John when the Hunter pulled up a chair for the older man.

"My son actually," John said. "He's just a few beds over. I met Ellie the first night I was here." Tom nodded, reaching for his wife's hand.

"You know," John said, an idea rushing to the front of his mind as he looked at the squirming boy and the two worn out elderly couple who were about to lose their daughter. "If you'd like someone to take Jeremy off your hands for a little bit, I know of someone who is a little bored and pretty good with kids."

"Oh no," Ellie said. "We couldn't ask you to do that."

"Really," John said. "It would be helping me out too." Tom looked at him curiously and threw up a warning hand.

"Careful, buddy. You don't know what you're getting yourself into. He's a maniac."

"No, I'm not," Jeremy said, sliding down his grandmother's legs and trying to dart out of the room before being snagged by the back of shirt.

"It's okay," John said, thinking of a certain hyperactive child that had given him a run for his money twenty years ago. "I promise to bring him back soon."

"Alright," Ellie said, watching him carefully, sizing him up to see if she could trust him with her precious grandson. Apparently, he passed her scrutiny. "We could use some time with our girl."

"I know," John said as Tom mouthed a thank you at him. "I'll bring him back in a little while. Come on, Jeremy. There's someone you should meet."

"Superman?" John chuckled as he led the boy back to Dean's bed, where Sam was sitting listlessly, his head leaned back against the wall.

"No, not Superman. This is Sam." His youngest looked over at the sound of his name, eyes glazed with detachment until he caught sight of the little boy holding onto his father.

"You're not Superman," Jeremy accused. Sam blinked.

"No, I'm not."

"Huh," Jeremy said.

"Dad, who is this?"

"This is Jeremy. I thought you could take him for a walk or a bite to eat."

"I like chicken nuggets," Jeremy said, going over to Sam and standing at his knee. Sam all but flinched away from the child, righting himself in his chair and moving away. It didn't matter; the little boy followed him as if attached by a string.

"Do you know Superman?"

"What? Why would you ask that?"

"'Cause you look big and strong and Superman is big and strong. Are you brothers with Superman?" Sam gulped and stared over the child's head, making desperate eyes at his father. But John had settled in next to Dean and didn't look as if he were going anywhere.

"Let's get chicken nuggets," Jeremy said, slipping his small hand into Sam's larger one. His little fingers nestled into Sam's palm as the older boy's hand curled instinctively around Jeremy's.

"Uh, okay," Sam said, standing. The little boy didn't even come up to Sam's hip but immediately starting leading Sam out of the room, not sparing a single glance toward the figure in the bed.

"I'll watch Dean," John promised, noticing Sam's reluctance to leave his brother. "You don't have to be gone long. But it will be good for you to get out for a bit. Get some real food. Here, have twenty dollars."

"Thanks," Sam said, letting himself be dragged from the room but surprised enough at the sudden affection to toss a glance over his shoulder at John, who was leaning over the bed and whispering something in Dean's ear.

Marion gave him a wink when she saw the two boys together and hurried over before they could leave.

"You know, there's a playground out back," she said, losing her oft-stern expression.

"Really?" Jeremy said, eyes wide. The little boy hadn't been outside for more than a few minutes at a time in days. He'd been stuck in the hospital with his grandparents who were nice but slow and his mom who wouldn't wake up.

"Yep. They have monkey bars and a big twisty slide."

"What about a see-saw? That's my favorite," Jeremy told her. Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes; of course the most annoying piece of equipment was his favorite.

"You know, last time I was out there, I'm pretty sure I saw a big green see-saw." Jeremy bounced up and down, his hand tightening around Sam's with eagerness.

"Can we go?" he asked, practically pleaded up at Sam with eyes the size of saucers. "Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease."

"Fine!" Sam said if only to get him to shut up. "We'll go after lunch. For ten minutes." Jeremy beamed and punched a tiny fist in the air.

"Yeah!"

"Alright," Marion said quickly. "You two get out of here before you wake up all the coma patients."

They wandered down the now-familiar halls toward the basement of the hospital where the cafeteria was located. Sam had only been down here once or twice but Jeremy seemed to know his way around well enough to lead him directly to a man who was serving hot dogs and, yes, chicken nuggets.

"I'd like chicken nuggets," Jeremy announced as Sam got him a tray. The man behind the counter smiled at him with an amused expression.

"You had chicken nuggets for lunch yesterday too."

"That's because they're yummy," Jeremy explained. He tilted his head up at Sam, practically craning his neck all the way to look up at the six foot four body.

"Do you want chicken nuggets too?"

"Uh, no," Sam said. He was getting nervous being this far away from Dean for this long. It was hard enough to go back to the hotel for a few hours a night but now, in the middle of the day…Dean could be waking up and Sam would be missing it. "I'm not hungry."

"Yes he is," Jeremy told the man behind the counter. "His brother is Superman so he is _very _hungry." He poked Sam in the hip with a stubby finger. "Mama says you have to eat to get lots of muscles. And you have lots of muscles." He turned back to the food in front of him. "I can only eat five chicken nuggets but you are much bigger so you can probably eat ten. So we need, um, how many is that?"

"That's fifteen," said the man, loading three things of chicken nuggets onto the tray. "And you are a clever little boy."

"I know," Jeremy said, waving goodbye and sliding the tray down the counter. "I need juice," he said to Sam, pointing to a shelf out of his reach.

"What?"

"Juice," Jeremy said impatiently. "Up there. Apple juice."

"Say please," Sam said automatically, waiting for the boy to mutter the word before grabbing the juice box and putting it on the tray.

"Don't you want anything?" Jeremy asked as Sam went to pay.

"Not really," Sam said. The child frowned at him as he paid the lady at the register and reached to the lowest shelf and grabbed a water, shoving it into Sam's hand who took it in surprise.

"I'll carry that," Sam said, reaching for the tray before all fifteen chicken nuggets ended up on the floor. They sat down and Jeremy started eating, biting into his lunch and staring at Sam the whole time, his legs swinging back and forth.

"You're sad," he said after his second piece of chicken had disappeared and he was licking the leftover breading off his fingers. Sam watched with mild disgust and little to no interest in what the kid was saying.

"Yeah," Sam said, shrugging.

"Why?"

_Because my brother was attacked and half eaten by a demon from Hindu mythology and now's he's probably dying and also I might be starting to feel bad for hating my father all these years. I haven't had a decent shower or slept through the night in five days and haven't seen my girlfriend lately. Oh yeah and she's probably pissed at me because I haven't called her in two days._

"It's not important," Sam said because he didn't feel like explaining anything.

"Is your brother sleeping too?" Jeremy asked, dunking his third chicken nugget in ketchup.

"What?"

"My mama is sleeping in a bed upstairs. Is that why you're sad? Because your brother is sleeping and you want him to be awake?" Despite his indifference to this child and the chattering that he wished would stop, Sam felt a lump in his throat, struggling to swallow around it as it grew. Yes, he wanted his brother to wake up. That's all he wanted.

"Yeah," Sam whispered, "He's been sleeping for a long time."

"My mama too," Jeremy said in a matter of fact tone then slid off his chair and came around to Sam's side of the table. He didn't give Sam a chance to react before he was wrapping his arms around Sam's middle, pressing his sticky fingers into Sam's t-shirt and nestling his head against Sam's side.

"It's okay to be sad," Jeremy said, voice muffled against the fabric. Sam patted his head awkwardly, not sure what to do, but Jeremy just kept clinging to him and Sam found himself enveloping the boy in his own arms. He froze when he heard a sniffle but then hugged the boy tighter, pushing back the chair so he could heft the small mass of human up onto his lap.

"It's okay," Sam said, repeating the same words he'd been telling his big brother for days now, words that seemed to have no effect. Jeremy was trembling slightly now in his grasp and those sticky fingers had made their way around Sam's neck as he buried his face in Sam's chest and let out a sudden sob. "It's okay, little man," Sam said, resting his chin in the boy's hair, rubbing his back in slow methodical circles.

"I…miss…my…mama," Jeremy said, taking in a quiet gasp of air in between the words.

"I know."

"I want her to wake up."

"I know." Sam didn't know the story about the little boy's mother, didn't know that in a few days, this child would be left without his mom, raised by a single father and a pair of aging grandparents. But he wasn't about to tell the child his mom was going to wake up because Sam wasn't about to lie to the kid.

After a minute, Jeremy tilted back his tear-stained face and looked up at Sam, still not letting go of his neck.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"I know I'm a big boy now 'cause I'm five but I'm glad you're holding me." There was nothing to say because now Sam was crying just a little bit too and instead of answering, he just tucked the boy back into his chest, rocking him as much as possible in the stiff chair.

"When I was little, my brother held me just like this when I was sad," Sam said quietly, one hand still rubbing circles. Jeremy let out hiccupping sob and then shuddered against his new friend. "And it made me feel a lot better. So I'll hold you as long as you want."

The little boy stayed curled in his lap for another few minutes, forehead on Sam's collarbone. He wasn't loud as he cried like the other children Sam had been around. In fact, the tears came mostly silently; their only sign of existence was a slight quivering and the fact that Sam's t-shirt was a lot wetter now than it had been five minutes ago.

"Do you want some juice?" Sam asked when it seemed like the worst of the tears had passed. Jeremy nodded and Sam kept one arm wrapped protectively around the child as he leaned forward to grab the juice box, nudging the boy off his shoulder and holding the box steady as he took a drink.

"Is your brother Superman?"

The words came a minute later, and were barely a whisper, mumbled into the crook of Sam's shoulder.

"To me he is," Sam said back, thinking about the answer carefully before going on. "He is strong and has big muscles like you said but he's also very kind and always tries to do the right thing, no matter what. And his favorite thing in the world to do is help people." Jeremy pulled away and looked Sam dead in the eye, his dark eyelashes wet with tears, the blue of his eyes even brighter than before.

"Like when he held you when you were crying?"

"Yes," Sam said. "Just like that. He's the best big brother ever."

"Then why is he sleeping? Can't he make himself better with his powers?"

"Sometimes even superheroes get hurt. He went to sleep to try and heal himself." Sam thought for a moment; trying to explain something so complicated in simple terms wasn't easy. "Do you play video games?" Jeremy nodded.

"I have a GameCube. I got it for my birthday."

"Well you know how sometimes you run out of juice and you have to wait a little bit before you can play again? That's how superheroes work. They run on juice and when it's all gone, they have to rest up before they can save more people."

"That makes sense," Jeremy said, twisting in Sam's arms. He thought the kid might be trying to get off his lap but instead he just turned himself around and grabbed at the chicken nuggets on the table, holding one out to Sam.

"You can have one of mine," Jeremy said and Sam took the gift, surprised to find how hungry he was now that food was literally under his nose. He ate the chicken in one bite and his stomach immediately rumbled for more, which Jeremy produced. They sat together until all the chicken nuggets were gone and then they left the cafeteria, Jeremy perched on Sam's hip after shrugging and looking up at Sam with a doleful expression.

"I don't wanna walk. Will you carry me?" And Sam said yes, remembering all the times Dean had carried Sam even though he was only four years older. All the times Sam had ridden piggyback, watching the world bounce by from over the top of his brother's head.

"Can we go back upstairs?" Jeremy asked.

"You don't want to go to the playground?" Sam said.

"No. I'm too tired." So Sam walked them both back upstairs where they met Marion at the nurse's station.

"Did you find the see-saw?" she asked and Jeremy shook his head.

"We were a little too tired for outside," Sam explained.

"And I wanted to meet Superman," Jeremy told the nurse with certainty. When Marion glanced at Sam with a question in her eyes, he shook his head minutely and then walked over to Dean's room.

"We have to be quiet," Sam reminded the boy. "Because he's sleeping."

"So he can get his powers back," Jeremy said and Sam nodded.

"Hey boys," John said as they walked back in. His looked rather taken aback to find the five-year-old in Sam's arms but said nothing about it.

"Can I say hi to Superman?" Jeremy asked shyly. "Sam said I could."

"Uh, sure," John said, confused. Sam set the boy on his feet but held his hand as they walked over to the bed. He carefully lowered the bedrails so Jeremy could see, then knelt beside the child.

"His real name is Dean," Sam said quietly.

"Hi, Dean," Jeremy squeaked, looking rather awestruck even though Dean had done nothing but lie there. Sam tried to see his brother the way the five year old did, tried to see past the scrapes and bruises and tubes and wires to the man underneath. The man who had wrapped his arms around Sam more times than he could count. The man that selflessly put himself in between monsters and their victims. When Sam was fourteen, he'd witnessed his brother running full on into a burning building. That's the Dean that Jeremy was seeing, the one who could do anything and everything.

The one with the superpowers.

"I think you're really cool," Jeremy said, reaching out and gently touching Dean's face before Sam could stop him. His small hand cupped Dean's chin and then he snatched it away as Dean made a noise.

"What's wrong?" Jeremy said, whipping his head to Sam. John leaned forward as Dean continued to make more noises and flex his fingers of the hand nearest him.

"He's saying how cool he thinks you are." Sam cocked his head as if deciphering Dean's meaningless gurgles. "And he thinks you're very brave." Jeremy turned wide eyes back on Dean.

"He said that?" the little boy whispered. Sam nodded and Jeremy reached out his hand again, this time laying just a finger one Dean's arm and tracing it all the way down to his wrist where he let it trail off onto the sheets. Then he stood on tiptoe to get as close to Dean's ear as possible with Sam holding onto his waist so he didn't topple over onto the bed.

"Thanks, Superman," Jeremy said in a conspiratorial whisper. "I hope you get better real fast and can start saving people again. When I grow up, I want to be just like you."

Both John and Sam's eyes were glassy as the little boy rocked back on his heels and stared at his hero, more in awe than he had been in his entire life.

xxx

It felt like Dean had been fighting the pain-creature for a long time. The creature came in intervals, must have had him locked up somewhere and only came by when it needed to feed. He hadn't been able to figure out what it was yet because he was having problems running two consecutives thoughts together. As soon as he tried, the words and images evaporated right out of his mind. What he knew was that when the pain-creature was gone, Dean felt trapped in a tight space, so tight he couldn't move an inch, couldn't even open his eyes. Normally it would have freaked him out – he'd always been a tad claustrophobic – but it didn't bother him now. Maybe it was something in the creature's venom or maybe this was just part of dying. He almost couldn't bring himself to care and sometimes he even tried to die, tried to focus enough on slowing his heartbeat to the point where it just stopped. It didn't work.

When the creature came was the worst because it would start slow, slinking it's way through the darkness, licking at the sore muscles in Dean's back and shoulders, sending a white hot heat up the right side of his face. Dean would try in vain to fight back but the most he could manage was a subtle twitching of his fingers, a useless weapon in any battle. Then the pain-creature would start on Dean's stomach and chest, raking its claws across him and sinking teeth in for a bite or two. That's when Dean's voice came back and he managed to scrape out growls and whines, nothing particularly menacing. The creature didn't even seem to notice him.

At least when the pain came, Sam often heard his brother and father speaking to him. He knew it was a complete delusion, a desperate attempt for his tortured mind to find some peace in this horrific situation. They whispered things to him. Sometimes nice things like _it's okay, Dean_ and _just be strong_ and _keep on fighting_. But at other times it was almost like they wanted him to die because they would say things like _shhh Dean, stop struggling_ and _it's for the best, Dean_ and _you have to calm down or you'll make it worse_.

He was so damn confused.

There was no way that his real Dad and Sam would ever tell him to give up so Dean kept fighting, kept struggling even though the other voices told him not to. It was just a trick to get him to die faster and even though he longed for Death at moments, Dean really didn't want to die.

The next time the pain-creature came, a different voice broke through the agony. Up until now, he'd only heard his family's voices, but this one was different.

_Hi, Dean._

He groaned as the creature danced on his chest but his ears were listening for that small voice. He'd never heard it before and it made him curious.

_I think you're really cool._

Ha, Dean thought. Not if you could see me, you wouldn't. God knows what I look like right now. A sweaty, bleeding, starving-to-death mess. He tried to explain, tried to hum out the words but they got stuck in his throat and simple noises came out instead.

_What's wrong?_

What wasn'twrong?

_He's saying how cool he thinks you are. And he thinks you're very brave._

Sam! That was Sam talking; he'd know that voice anywhere. He wanted to shout out but as always, he was trapped beneath the floor and the creature as it continued it's attack, ripping through him as if there was anything left of him to rip apart. Then the little voice from before was back. It was closer than before, as if someone was in this hellhole with him. He really hoped there wasn't, for their sake.

_Thanks, Superman. I hope you get better real fast and can start saving people again. When I grow up, I want to be just like you._

* * *

**A/N: **One of my favorite chapters so far! What did you guys think?**  
**


	10. Chapter 10

John returned Jeremy to his grandparents, catching the grateful smile Ellie turned his way as the little boy eagerly sidled up to his mother's bedside and started telling her about all about "Superman." He left the room, giving the small family some privacy and returned to his own sons.

"Anything?" he asked Sam who just shook his head. Dean's attempt at waking hadn't gotten far; the Hunter was still on his bed once more without even opening his eyes. John turned his attention to his youngest. "You okay?" He expected a swift nod, the now-familiar rigidity of Sam's shoulders that always occurred when John addressed him. Instead, those same shoulders sagged and Sam took a deep breath.

"I don't know," he said. "I just-." His voice faltered and trailed off. The tears that had started in the cafeteria as he held Jeremy close to him sprung forth again, as if they had been waiting for this moment and his promise not to cry shattered as he dropped his head into his hands. Long fingers pulled at his hair, scraping across his scalp and then John was next to him. The older man did it without thinking; it was instinct that had one arm wrapped around his son's shoulders. At first, Sam resisted the comfort, the way he cringed and pulled away reminded John of himself and he shook his head when he realized it was from him where Sam had learned this. How long had John been encouraging his children to keep their emotions locked away?

Then something changed and the sturdy weight of his son collapsed into John, so much so that John's chair scooted a few inches backwards before he could brace his feet against the floor. Sam was shaking in his arms, every inch of his skin trembling as if he'd been doused with water from the Arctic Ocean.

"Okay," John said softly. "I know, Sam." Sam's wandering fingers stilled at the tone of his father's voice and John took that opportunity to gently untangle them from his son's hair. "You're going to be okay." Sam shook his head violently, bent at the middle, shoulder driven into John's chest as he let himself go another notch. A tortured sob choked its way out from his lips and John made a decision.

"Come on," he said, standing, keeping both arms around Sam as his son's legs unfolded with his.

"Can't…leave," Sam gasped when John tried to steer him out the door. He flagged Marion down with one hand and the nurse hurried over with an anxious look, one hand reaching out automatically for Sam. He flinched at the unfamiliar touch, burrowing himself deeper into John and John had the distinct memory of a shy three-year-old Sam turning into his father's chest whenever anyone approached him.

"We're going back to the hotel," John said quietly.

"No," Sam mumbled, making a feeble attempt to detach himself from his father but there was little energy left in the boy and he was no match for John who held on even tighter.

"I'll stay with Dean," Marion said and her voice was the softest he'd ever heard it. "I promise I won't leave him."

"I can't leave him," Sam insisted but the words were just a whisper and then his feet were moving again, putting feet then yards then a set of double doors between him and his brother, letting the man he hated most in the world carry him away from the man he loved the most.

John allowed him to pull away a bit as they left the hospital but kept a firm hand on Sam's arm as he wove drunkenly through the parking lot and then up to the hotel room where Sam wrenched away and shut himself in the bathroom. John heard the shower turn on and sat down on his bed, turning the TV on but keeping it muted. He didn't expect Sam to call out for him but he kept his head turned in that direction for a long time, just in case.

Thirty minutes later and Sam still hadn't made an appearance. Not only that but the water was running just as it had been and there were no distinct sounds of movement as there should have been.

"Sam?" he called. No response. John banged his fist on the door and called out again but the only answers were the steady stream of water and the heat coming through the wooden door. He jiggled the handle, surprised to find it unlocked. "I'm coming in," he announced then swung the door wide, letting his gaze scan the room before falling on the huddled form at the edge of the bathtub.

Sam was seated on the edge of the tub, fully clothed, his head once again cradled in his hands. The curtain was drawn around the shower but the spray of hot water filled the room with thick humidity, coating the walls and floors with flecks of moisture that matched the tear stains that ran down Sam's cheeks as he tilted his head up at his father, eyes wild with something deeper than grief.

"Oh, Sam," John said, taking in the sight of his frenzied son. "Hey, easy there champ." He leaned over and shut the water off then sat down beside Sam. Tendrils of soaked hair stuck to his son's nape and John brushed them away, listening to the whimper his son let out at the feel of cool fingers. Noises rose from the kid like smoke from a fire, a constant stream that sounded almost like a soft chanting and John only had to listen a few seconds more to figure out what Sam was saying.

"DeanDeanDeanDeanDean."

It was only that one word, just four insignificant letters, but they carried an indomitable power over both men. John knew the boys had been close, had been inseparable all those long years but he'd never understand just how tightly their bond was until that moment, sitting in an overheated hotel bathroom, one arm wrapped around Sam while he wished the other could be holding on firmly to Dean, who felt miles away. John cursed himself for not realizing how much the last few days had been destroying Sam, slowly chiseling away at his strength and bravado until he was reduced to this: a mess of shuddering sobs and that never-ending litany.

_DeanDeanDeanDeanDeanDean_

"I'm sorry," John said. "I'm so sorry, Sam. For everything." Sam fell into him, just as he had at the hospital, blindly searching out the body next to him until his father's shirt was once again tucked in his fist. His head fit underneath John's chin as easily as when he was a child and for the first time in many, many years Sam let his father comfort him, let him rub soothing circles into his damp t-shirt.

They sat that way for a while until both of John's legs had gone numb from the hard surface they were seated on. Sam was still crying – John didn't know if he'd ever stop – but the incantation of his brother's name had ceased after those initial minutes. When John went to stand, Sam's grip on him tightened as if he were afraid his father was going to leave him there.

"Easy," John said. "Let's go out to the beds." Sam clutched to his father as they moved, almost slipping on the wet floor before settling onto Sam's bed. "You're soaked," John commented, leaving Sam alone for a second to grab a towel.

"Dean," Sam mumbled, his eyes red and swollen from crying but as they peered up at John, he was surprised to find how much they resembled Dean's in that moment, bright from the tears. "I need to go…"

"No, you don't," John said. "You're exhausted and if you don't sleep, you're going to get sick."

"'m not," Sam muttered but a fever was rising to his skin, a pounding pressure building against the walls of his head.

"Arms up," John said and tugged Sam's t-shirt off. "Here," he said, putting the towel in Sam's hands. "Dry yourself off." For some reason, this elicited a fresh batch of tears and John watched in frustration as Sam's lips quivered with unbound emotion.

"D-Dean."

"Okay," John muttered to himself, grabbing the towel back. It had been a long time since he'd been much of a father but somehow his hands were gentle as he brushed the soft cloth over his son's body and the stilted movements grew easy and familiar within a second. There was no way Sam would let him do this in normal circumstances but the boy seemed halfway catatonic, just sitting and staring blankly at his hands, leaking trails of salt water that dripped from his chin. When he was done drying him off, he wet a washcloth with cool water and ran it over Sam's face, catching the tears and staving off the flush that was creeping in. John kept Sam's chin in one hand as he worked swiftly with the other.

"My eyes itch," Sam whined as his father batted away his hands.

"From the crying," John said. "Don't touch them or you'll make it worse." Sam dropped his hands and his father finished the job, dressing Sam in a new shirt then pulling down the covers on the bed.

"Sam, take off your pants. They're dirty and wet." Sam glanced at him with a hollow expression but his fingers fumbled at the clasp and he slid out of the heavy material, allowing John to push him down onto the pillows, curling up instinctively. He looked so much like the small boy he had once been, John half expected him to stick a thumb in his mouth. Sam settled for blinking wearily, trying to fight sleep.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered to John who was watching him closely. "Will you tell Dean I'm sorry?"

"He knows, Sam," John said. "And when he wakes up, you can tell him again."

The blankets heaved as Sam let out a deep sigh and then closed his eyes for good, still facing toward his father. John waited a minute then sighed himself and sat down on his own bed, not feeling his own tiredness at all. He would watch Sam as he had been watching Dean, would guard him as he slept and then together, the two of them would figure out a way to wake Dean up, to somehow heal what remained so broken between them.

xxx

Sam found the black sleep he'd been searching for all week and clung to it for hours with John watching from first his bed then the chair by the window and back to his bed again. The TV was still on but it was all but ignored as the Hunter stole frequent glances at his sleeping son. The moans and whimpers had subsided within seconds of Sam closing his eyes and he was still curled up on his side, hands tucked under his chin, only the blankets moving in time with his soft breaths. He slept for so long that John left the room to pick up a pizza across the street and returned to find Sam in the exact same position as he left him.

It was hard to believe he was only twenty years old. Sometimes, his sons felt as old as he did. They had certainly seen enough to wise them up a few decades, had dealt with more misfortune and death than the next hundred men. Sam had killed – albeit, things worth killing – but still, he had taken lives with his palms wrapped around the handle of a gun or the hilt of a knife. He'd driven stakes into hearts, severed spinal cords, even plucked fangs out of a creature's mouth with a pair of pliers. All before the age of eighteen.

What had taken John so much time to realize that he had snatched his sons' childhood out from under them? Sam had never even had one to begin with; he grew up learning Latin chants aside multiplication tables, had taken art class at the same time his father showed him how to draw ancient runes of protection. All the while, John was blind to what he was doing, hadn't given it more than a second thought when he taught Dean to shoot at age six, leaving them alone for the first time when his eldest was only eight years old, Sam a mere four.

But now John could see that there was still baby fat on Sam's cheeks; he'd yet to acquire the hollowed look of his father and for that, John was grateful. Sam had his whole damn life ahead of him and it dawned on the older Hunter that it wasn't his right to make decisions for the boys anymore. Maybe when they were younger, too young to know what was right, but Sam had proven in the last few years how capable of taking care of himself he truly was. And Dean…well, Dean had been taking care of himself plus one since he was four years old.

Sam stirred and John held his breath, pretending to watch the TV as Sam blinked awake, sitting up with a groan.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?" Sam squinted back at him, eyes still puffy hours later, but John was relieved to see that the scarlet patches from before no longer adorned his son's cheeks. He could only handle one sick kid at a time.

"Why aren't you with Dean?"

"I wanted to make sure you were okay." Sam frowned but didn't say anything as he pushed his way out of bed.

"Uh, where are my pants?"

"Drying. I had to wash them out in the sink. They were filthy." If Sam was surprised at the act of domesticity, he didn't say anything, just stumbled to his backpack in his t-shirt and boxers, pulling out another wrinkled pair of jeans.

"Why'd you let me sleep so long?" he said finally, flipping open the box of pizza and picking up a cold slice. John raised an eyebrow.

"You needed it, trust me."

"We should get back to the hospital," Sam said, the slice of pizza already half-eaten as he searched for his shoes. John clicked the TV off and sat up, his hands on his knees as he took a deep breath.

"Sam, we should talk."

"No, we should be with Dean."

"Sam."

It wasn't an order but a request, quiet but firm, and enough out of character that Sam paused.

"About what?" he said finally.

"You know what." Sam's responding laugh was too forced and disbelieving to be real.

"You want me to talk about my feelings? Fine. I'm scared to death, Dad. My brother who practically raised me is lying in a hospital bed. He can't see me, can't hear me, can't tell me where he's hurting or if he needs help. He might be _dying _and there's nothing I can do about it. So yeah, I'm a little upset and yeah, I'm a little scared. I'm sorry if that bothers you."

John cocked his head.

"You think you getting upset about Dean bothers me?" he asked. Sam had the decency to remove his gaze from his father's as his expression turned into one that resembled shame and embarrassment. He raised his arms slightly before letting them fall back to his sides.

"I don't know, Dad. Whenever I cried as a little kid, you always told me that soldiers don't cry."

The furious beating of John's heart was painful underneath his rib cage and he wondered if he'd ever be able to make up for all of the stupid things he'd said over the years. He resisted the urge to give in to the nauseous rolling of his stomach as the boy in front of him avoided his gaze.

"Sam, I'm sorry. You boys are the most important things in my life and I know I haven't acted that way. But I want you to know that it's true. I will never forgive myself for what happened to Dean. Never."

"I want to believe you, Dad, I really do, but how can I?" Sam said wearily. "Am I just supposed to accept that you're going to change all of a sudden? After all these years? I mean thanks for taking care of me before, but what about when you get wind of a hunt? What would you do right now if you got a lead on the demon?"

The answer was that John didn't know. Hunting was so ingrained in him, it was almost as if he was programmed to go after one thing and one thing only. But he hadn't been lying to Sam when he said that his children were the most important things. Sam sighed at the hesitation but he wasn't angry, just defeated at how right his father was proving him.

"Sam," he said again and this time it was more to the tune of begging, a rare plead was falling from John Winchester's lips. "Please remember I've lost your mother and I might be losing my son."

"What do you want from me?" Sam asked, shaking his head against his father's plea. "Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? Because I lost my mother and am losing my brother. So you're not the only one who's going through something here."

"No," John said. "No, you don't need to feel sorry for me. Sympathy doesn't change anything. It doesn't change anything and it can't bring anyone back from the dead." He hesitated then said, "But neither does anger. I get that now. I should have looked after you better. And I'm sorry for that."

"Fine," was all Sam could muster.

"I know it might take a while but I hope that one day you can look at me again. I don't want to lose the only family I have left." Sam remained silent, not out of anger but because he wasn't sure what to do with that. The last five minutes were the most sentimental he'd ever gotten with his father; it was new territory for both of them and Sam wasn't sure how to react. If he didn't forgive his father, he'd be labeled the jackass who couldn't get over the past. But at the same time, Sam wasn't quite ready to forget the last twenty years. For some reason, that seemed like it would be letting John off the hook too easily.

"Okay," Sam said and John raised his gaze from where he'd been staring at the floor. "I, uh, accept your apology." He fidgeted where he stood. "I don't know how things are going to go between us, a lot of crap has happened. But I'm sure we can work something out. You know, for Dean," he added at the end. "He's going to need both of us when he wakes up." John hesitated, not wanting to ruin the moment but not wanting Sam to carry on any delusions either.

"Sam, you have to accept the fact Dean's not out of the woods yet. I talked to the doctor yesterday after Dean's…fit and while he was optimistic about Dean's attempt to wake up, he was also realistic." The hazel eyes narrowed at John.

"What are you talking about?"

"Hell, I want him to pull through as much as you do but there's only so much the doctors can do. If Dean's heart decides to give out or if those wounds get infected…I just want you to be prepared."

"You want me to be prepared for my brother's death?" Sam asked flatly. John winced.

"I know it's an awful thing to consider but we _do_ have to consider it. As much as we don't want to. I just don't want you getting your hopes up too much."

"He's going to wake up," Sam said. "He woke up before, he'll do it again. You'll see."

"Okay," John said, deciding to drop the subject go for the moment. He'd only just managed to get Sam not to completely hate him; now wasn't the time to poke the bear. "Alright, let's go see Dean."

* * *

**A/N: **Thoughts?


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** Decided to break the next chapter into two parts so you guys get two updates this week! There are just a few more scenes I want to do first before Dean wakes up, including some flashbacks so more Dean coming soon!

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Dean was fussing slightly in his sleep, his left hand twitching against the blankets, the now ever-present crease in between his brows giving him a perpetual puzzled look. The doctors were a little concerned he didn't ever seem to move his right hand but there was little they could do until he woke up fully. Which, Sam thought, seemed to be in between never and incredibly soon.

Angie stuck her head around the curtain.

"How's he doing?" she asked.

"Okay," Sam said. "Same as before. It's like he's trying to wake up but can't quite there most of the time."

"He's on some pretty serious drugs right now. Don't get discouraged. Anyway, there's someone here to see you."

"What? Who?" John had ducked out to make a few phone calls and Dr. Cantwell would have just walked in. There wasn't anyone else besides Angie that Sam had even looked at while here.

"Come on," Angie said with a smile. "You'll want to come out."

Sam frowned and took a last look at Dean before following her out into the ward. Angie opened the doors out of the ICU to reveal none other than Sam's girlfriend, Jess, in jeans and her favorite t-shirt, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a wearing a tentative smile on her face.

"Jess!" Sam said loudly, almost shouted, before lowering his voice and hurrying forward. He wrapped her in a hug, giving her a light kiss. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought you could use some support," she said, trying not to cling too desperately to him. It felt like ages since she'd held him even though it had just been a week. He felt smaller beneath her but when he pulled away, there was something in Sam's eyes that hadn't been there a week ago, an unrecognizable spark of righteousness. "I just came for a few hours since I have to work in the morning but I thought it might be worth it. I brought you some fresh clothes too."

"Oh good," Angie said, still standing at the doors. "He needs to change out of the two t-shirts he has or we're going to make him start wearing a hospital gown." Jess grinned at the thought and scanned her boyfriend's lanky frame. She didn't think a hospital gown would entirely cover him.

"This is Angie," Sam introduced. "Dean's nurse. And comforter extraordinaire. She's pretty much an angel."

"He's definitely overselling me," Angie said. "But I_ am_ Dean's nurse. One of them."

"How is he?" Jess asked, turning to Sam. She hadn't talked to Sam since yesterday and even then, he'd been vague about his brother's condition.

"Not out of the woods yet, but he's getting there," Sam said, glancing at Angie. "I, uh, know it's against the rules but could she come in and meet him? Just for a little bit?"

"Sam, you know it's only family allowed," Angie said and Jess tucked her fingers into her boyfriend's hand, giving him a soft squeeze.

"It's okay, Sam. You can go back in. We could grab something to eat before I go if you want. I can just hang out." But Sam was giving Angie his best puppy dog eyes, pleading silently with her and after a few moments the kind nurse rolled her eyes.

"Alright. Just for a little while. But if you're father comes back, someone has to go. Three is too many for Dean right now."

"Five minutes," Sam promised.

"Yeah, yeah," Angie said, opening the doors. "Get dressed up and I'll see you in there. I'll go see if Prince Charming wants to open his eyes for us."

"So he's waking up?" Jess asked as Sam found her a set of scrubs in the nearby stack.

"Yes and no," Sam said. "He comes in and out of it. It's kind of hard to explain. It'll be easier to show you. He's doing really well though, especially compared to when he was brought in. The doctors didn't even think he was going to make it through the first night but he's made it through this many. So…" Sam trailed off and shrugged, holding out the scrubs. Jess watched her boyfriend ramble on animatedly. It was a much different version of him than the one she had been conversing with on the phone lately. That Sam had been sullen and tired, never wanting to talk for more than five minutes at a time, if that. Phone-Sam had no hope but this Sam…he seemed to be thriving off it. He toned it down a bit as they got ready to go into the ICU.

"He doesn't look great still," Sam admitted. "And he can't really talk yet or anything. So just act natural, okay? If it's too much for you, we can leave."

"I'll be fine," Jess said. When she was thirteen, she had had her appendix removed and spent three days in the hospital without showering. She looked like a zombie by the time she left and wouldn't let anyone see her for a week afterwards. Except Jess wasn't exactly prepared for what she saw when Sam pulled back the curtain around his brother's bed.

Dean was lying mostly flat, propped up only by a couple pillows. One side of his face was a mess of scratches and burns while the other was unmarked. He had a thin tube running up into his nose along with oxygen tubes and had a total of four IVs and a blood pressure cuff wrapped around one of his biceps. A heart monitor next to the bed let out a steady series of beeps. As her steps slowed, Sam's hand tightened around hers.

"I know it looks bad," Sam said.

"I just…didn't realize how bad," Jess said, stopping a hand from covering her mouth. "You never said on the phone." Sam looked slightly uncomfortable and let go of her hand to rearrange Dean's blankets, which had fallen to reveal bandages wrapped thickly around his torso. Where the mountain lion had gotten him, Jess figured. She hadn't heard the whole story yet, only that Dean had been on a hunting trip with their father and the animal had attacked him.

"So does he wake up?" she asked, a quiver eating at her words. Sam took the chair closest to Dean and she sat down next to him, staring at the massacred body in front of her. She couldn't even believe it was a living person. He was so pale and thin and still. If it weren't for his chest moving slowly up and down, Jess would have thought he was dead.

"Sometimes," Sam said. "They have to keep him on pretty heavy painkillers plus a low dose of sedatives but sometimes he wakes up. He likes it when I talk to him." Jess watched her boyfriend pick up his brother's hand and rub it gently, leaning in to speak softly to Dean.

"Hey, buddy. It's me, Sam. Guess what? Jess, my girlfriend, is here and she wants to meet you real bad. She drove all this way just to come see us. What do you say?" Sam grinned as one of Dean's fingers twitched and then started the long process of waking his brother up.

"That's it. I know you can hear me, can't you? You don't have to wake up for very long, just a little bit and then you can go back to sleep and we'll stop bothering you." Jess was almost too busy marveling at how gentle and soft-spoken her normally macho boyfriend had turned to notice Dean's head turn a half an inch toward Sam. He turned to Jess, grinning.

"See? He's listening. Do you want to say something?" She was taken aback, she hadn't thought she would even get to see Dean, let alone get the chance to talk to him. She knew it was stupid because the guy was practically comatose but what if he didn't like her? She was one of the reasons Sam stayed away from his family and what if Dean resented her for it?

"What would I say?" Sam shrugged.

"It doesn't matter. They don't even know if he can tell what we're saying most of the time. But I think the talking helps him wake up; it's the tone that's most important. As long as you're quiet and calm, he won't care what you say."

"Okaaaay," Jess said and shifted forward in her chair, flipping her hair over her shoulder nervously. "Hey, Dean," she started, trying her best to keep her voice steady. "You don't know me but I'm Sam's girlfriend, Jess. We live together in California and Sam hogs all the covers on the bed at night." Her boyfriend looked over startled and Jess smirked at him. "That's right," she continued. "I'm going to tell you all his secrets. Like how sometimes he showers with a shower cap on."

"I do not!" Sam protested, eyes wide.

"He does," Jess told Dean. The boy's eyelids shifted and he fidgeted against his pillows, his chest shuddering out a sigh.

"Don't listen to her, Dean," Sam said. "It's all lies."

"How about this? One time I made cookies and then had to run to class and by the time I got back, he had eaten every single one. Later he threw up in the shower."

"Okay that one might be true," Sam conceded, brushing a hand over his hair. "That was definitely not my best idea. I couldn't eat chocolate chip cookies for months after that."

A noise came from deep in Dean's throat at the same time his eyes blinked open and then shut again.

"That's it," Sam encouraged. "Open them again, Dean. I've got a pretty blonde girl sitting right here. You don't want to miss her." Jess gave a laugh and bumped Sam's shoulder with her own but watched as Dean's eyelids came up more slowly this time, drinking in the light that lit up the room with fluorescent brightness. His gaze was straight on Sam as his brother continued to talk to him, encouraging Dean to keep his eyes open.

"This is Jess," Sam said finally. "Babe, scooch forward so he can see you better. Yeah, there you go. See Dean, I told you she was pretty." Dean's eyes went unfocused as he attempted to slide his gaze from one person to the other.

"Hey, Dean," Jess said lightly. "I bet you would love to hear that you are much more handsome than your brother. You definitely got the better genes."

"Ouch," Sam said, then quieted as Dean decided who to look at. He settled on Jess as she kept talking and his eyes grew clearer the longer he looked at her.

"You've got a real special brother," Jess told him quietly. "But I'm sure you know that, don't you?" Looking at the uninjured side of his face, Jess could see that Dean really _was_ handsome. He wasn't nearly as frail as he first appeared, his arms were heavy with muscle and his chest was broader than Sam's. She supposed that made sense since she knew he was four years older and worked as a mechanic. He had a smattering of freckles that stood out against the paleness and those emerald eyes that stood out even more. She thought she'd hit the one-in-a-million jackpot with Sam but she could see now that startlingly good looks ran in the Winchester family. Not just anyone could make almost dying in a hospital bed look this good.

"Mmmm," Dean whined, his eyes widening all of a sudden and shifting back to Sam.

"Easy," Sam said, glancing around. Jess noticed the heart monitor had quickened its pace and Sam watched the machine with a practiced eye. He spoke slowly and deliberately with his next sentence,

"Dean, does it hurt? Squeeze my hand if it does." There was a moment of pause and then Dean's fingers clutched at Sam's. "Okay," Sam said, turning to Jess. "I've got to go get Angie before he starts freaking out. Can you just sit with him and try to keep him calm?"

"What?" Jess asked, alarmed. "What do you mean freak out?"

"His heart," Sam said distractedly, watching Dean tilt his head up to the ceiling and back down again, a tell-tale sign he was getting ready to start thrashing. "Just sit with him. I'll be back in a minute."

He left in a rush, almost sprinting out of the room but before he went, he transferred Dean's hand from his into Jess's and instantly, cool fingers curled around hers.

"Um, hi," she said to Dean whose gaze was moving around the room at random. "Sam just went to get the nurse," she continued. "They'll be back soon and get this all sorted out." She thought Dean's eyes might have landed on her for longer this time. He made the same noise as before but louder and pressed back against his pillows, tilting his head to the side.

"It's okay," she said, the ridiculous words sprouting from her lips. Clearly, the man in front of her was not okay at all. "Sam and Angie will come back and everything will be fine. We probably shouldn't have woken you up, huh?" Now Dean was listening, his eyes on her even as his face contorted with obvious discomfort. "Sam has lots of stupid ideas. I'm sure you know that. But he means well. I think he has been waiting a really long time to introduce us and he got a little excited. Next time, we won't wake you up, I promise."

"There you go," came a voice from behind her and Jess turned to see the nurse bustle in. "No, no, keep talking to him. Keep him occupied while I get this sorted. Sam had to step out for a minute."

"Um, okay," Jess said, turning back to Dean who was still watching her. She could have sworn he even looked a little curious underneath all the pain and confusion.

"Well, let's see I could tell you about that time freshman year, Sam tried to keep a puppy in our dorm. It didn't turn out well. He found the thing on the streets; it fit right into the palm of his hand, just a white fuzzball. For a few days it was okay because it was so sick that it didn't make any noise. But, Sam nursed it back to health and inevitably, it started barking." Angie slid a needle into Dean's IV and a few seconds later, Jess felt the grip on her hand loosen. "Anyway, it got out in the middle of the night and ran barking all the way down the hall. Being stupid freshman, someone pulled the fire alarm and everyone left their rooms half asleep. Except for Sam who was chasing after the dog." Jess laughed at the memory. She and Sam had only been friends at that point but they'd gotten together not long after. "Needless to say, Sam caught the puppy but also got caught by the RA. She was not happy. We had to take the dog to the shelter the next morning but Sam went every couple days to visit it until after it was adopted." Dean's eyes were mostly closed now, his hand completely slack in her grip. "I think that's when I fell in love with him," Jess admitted softly. "I saw him nursing that dumb dog back to health, going through all this trouble because it needed him. He's a great guy and you sure are lucky to be his brother."

"You're a natural," Angie said, watching Dean. "He doesn't calm down for many people."

"Will he be okay?" Jess asked.

"You mean right now? Yeah, he'll be fine. The pain gets overwhelming for him and scares him I think. I'm not sure if Sam told you but he's mostly sedated because he tends to get upset when he wakes up." Jess looked curious.

"Why?" Angie shook her head just once, running a hand through Dean's hair, smiling softly when the boy let out a low sigh in his sleep.

"I don't know. I'm not sure he has any idea what's going on when he wakes up. But he won't calm down long enough without the drugs for us to explain anything. It's starting to become a real issue."

"Sam didn't tell me any of this," Jess said, gazing at her boyfriend's brother. She could tell there was something about Dean, the same something that had drawn her to Sam two and a half years ago. She'd only known him for twenty minutes and yet Jess's heart ached at the thought of losing him.

"Sam's very optimistic about Dean's recovery," Angie said slowly. "It's true that Dean is in a much better state than he was a week ago. He couldn't even open his eyes a few days ago but now we're facing different kinds of problems."

"So he might not be okay in the long run?" Angie patted Jess on the shoulder.

"We're working on it. Everyone wants to see him get better. Even unconscious, he's quite the charmer. And he's got a very dedicated father and brother watching out for him." They both turned at the sound of footsteps and Sam came back into the room, looking anxious.

"Is he okay?"

"He's fine," Angie assured him. "Jess here kept him nice and calm. I gave him a slightly lower dose of the sedative like we discussed. We'll see how he handles it. As for right now, he's sleeping." Sam still looked concerned but nodded.

"You okay?" he asked Jess, who stood and took his hand.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Sam fidgeted where he stood, glancing over her shoulder at Dean and then back at Jess. "My dad's outside," he said. "Would you like to meet him?" Jess smiled and kissed him as he refused to look her directly in the eyes. She knew how hard it was for Sam to have her here while his Dad was in the same building but she was secretly thrilled she was finally able to meet his family, even in these less than happy circumstances.

"I'd love that," Jess said truthfully.

"Don't worry," Angie said. "I'll stay with this guy for a little bit so you guys take all the time you need." She winked at Jess. "Maybe you can convince him to go outside. I don't think he's seen the sun in days."

"Will do," Jess said and stepped forward to the bed. "Thanks for waking up for me, Dean," she said, leaning down and placing a tender kiss on his forehead. "I'll come back and visit when you're awake for real, I promise."

* * *

**A/N: **Thoughts?


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **Chapter Eleven was also uploaded this week so if you missed it, make sure to read before this one! Warnings for slight graphic imagery when it comes to injuries but it's nothing worse than what's been in the story so far.

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Jessica Moore reminded John a lot of Mary. Both blonde and thin, graced with curves that made the men around them rather appreciative, but it was the way she looked at Sam that had John smiling as the three of them walked down the hallway. She looked at his boy like he hung the moon, like he put the goddamn stars in the sky one by one, just for her. The depth that the two of them shared within a single glance, a subtle twitching of fingers was nearly enough to take his breath away because John wasn't exactly well-versed in love these days. Sure, there were the random women along the way; they were almost a prerequisite for a good Hunter but there was nothing in it for John. Perhaps they could be explained as a satisfaction for occasional lust, a sating of a dull appetite, but there was never any love involved.

The only love John felt now was for his boys, the rest of it felt like some contorted illusion that he couldn't quite get a firm grasp on. Love danced away from him like a partner who had had her feet stepped on one too many times.

Seeing Jess and Sam together, however, and the way his son could hardly keep his eyes from rolling to his left every other second just to drink her in once more, not caring that he'd almost run into three people and an open door since she arrived…it breached some forgotten threshold in the Hunter. A dam was coming undone in John Winchester; piece by piece he was losing the tight control he'd fought so hard to maintain over the years. The thing was, he knew what was happening, could feel it in the core of his being and yet was letting it continue without pause. The strong part of him was standing idly by while another part crumbled to dust.

"Sam," he said as they neared the front entrance of the hospital. "Why don't we go out to eat?"

"Out?" Sam said the word as if it was a foreign concept. "What do you mean?"

"There's a strip mall just down the road, it's got all sorts of those chain restaurants. Applebees and that Olive Garden place I think." Down the road sounded like a long way away, especially since the farthest Sam had been from Dean was across a parking lot.

"I don't know," Sam said uncomfortably, looking between his father and Jess. If his girlfriend weren't here, he wouldn't have a problem arguing with John that the hospital cafeteria was a good a place as any for lunch. Jess squeezed his hand and he glanced back to her.

"It might be good for you to get out of here," she said quietly, knowing that Sam didn't want to leave but also recognizing the fact that her boyfriend didn't always do what was best for him, especially when it came to the people he cared about. "Let's just go down the road. We'll order fast and be back in an hour, an hour and a half max." John watched her cajoling his stubborn son and was only halfway surprised when Sam's frown lightened and he gave his girlfriend a peck on the lips. Mary had been able to talk him into just about anything.

"Alright," he said. "But just for a little. I really don't want him to be alone."

It was pleasant until the three of them reached the far side of the parking lot where John and Sam's cars were parked and each Winchester headed toward their respective vehicle without consulting the other.

"Uh, Sam? Can't we all take one car?" Jess asked when John hadn't followed them to the Oldsmobile.

"Yeah," Sam said but turned around to find his father putting a key in the Impala's driverside door. "Dad, what are you doing?"

"I'll drive," he said. "Get in."

Sam didn't want to ride in the Impala. The last time he had been in there with John was probably the day he walked out three years ago, sitting cramped in his seat, staring at the back of his father's head with vehement resentment. The Impala was where Sam had spent his childhood. Hell, most of his life milestones up until age eighteen happened on those leather seats. He'd thrown up in there countless times, had lost most of his baby teeth there; one he had spit out into his hand after John sideswiped a parked car in an escape from the local authorities. It was where he had kissed several girls, most during those last couple years of high school after he'd actual discovered the female population. And yes, like Dean before him, that front seats of the car were the exact same place Sam had lost his virginity. He squirmed at the memory, still holding onto Jess's hand.

"Dad, let's take my car," he said but John was already putting the key in the ignition and Jess just shrugged and slid in the backseat, leaving Sam the passenger side next to his father. The inside of the car was quiet as they pulled out onto the highway, the nose of the car heading north and away from Dean. Sam's knuckles were white against the door handle. Jess was the one who finally broke the silence.

"You have a nice car, Mr. Winchester," she said innocently.

"Thanks," John said just as Sam growled,

"It's not his."

"Oh," Jess said, failing to think of something quick enough to mask the growing tension between the two men.

"It's Dean's," Sam continued and the words leapt across the front seat as a dare to John, who couldn't resist answering.

"It was mine for a long time."

"Not anymore," Sam said. "You gave it to Dean right after I left. He told me that."

"That's right," John said. "But I drove him here to the hospital in it so it's the only car I have right now." Sam huffed out a disgusted noise while Jess couldn't help but look around, running a hand over the smooth leather of the backseat, imagining the boy in the hospital laying right where she sat. There were no traces of blood, no signs that the car had been in anything but pristine condition for the past week, past month, probably it's whole life. John shifted uncomfortably behind the steering wheel, remembering the last time he'd been in this exact spot.

xxx

_It was not the kind of night John wanted to spend looking for his missing son. Scratch that, any night he had to come out to the middle of nowhere because Dean had messed something up was a bad night. It seemed as if every star in every galaxy was shining down on him and the eldest Winchester switched off the flashlight because it wasn't doing him a whole lot of good._

_ "Jesus Christ, Dean," John muttered when he stubbed the toe of his boot on a rock and almost ended up face first in the disgusting red dirt that covered the entire Southwest of the United States. "I'm moving to Hawaii," the Hunter said before he remembered that he hated sand almost as much as dust. "Maybe England." But it was too rainy over there. "I just need to get back to Kansas," he mumbled eventually._

_ Dean had been missing for twelve hours. It was nearing midnight and the first time heard from the kid that day, Dean had been working on the Rakshasa job John has sent him on a few days ago in the middle of godforsaken nowhere. But that had been at noon when Dean had said he was closing in on the creature and should be back at his motel in time for happy hour at the nearby bar. John had been in the bottom of the state investigating a potential lead on the yellow-eyed demon that ruled his life when Dean had called around six with a frantic undertone to his words._

_ "Dad, I could use some help. Can you get up here?" John had had a few drinks at this point but he recognized the edge of panic when he heard it and his son was hovering right at the precipice. _

_ "Dean, calm down," he instructed, slipping off his bar stool and leaving a twenty on the counter. The bartender winked and saluted him goodbye and John couldn't help but smile into the mouthpiece of the phone._

_ "I _am _calm," Dean said then, "Jesus, I think it's coming at me."_

_ That was the last John heard before a brief moment of static and then the phone cut off. It was ominous, something out a bad horror movie, but John's whole life was slasher flick so it didn't concern him much. Except when it was two hours later and he hadn't heard a word from his son, not to mention none of his calls were going through. Four hours after that and he was scouring the desert with a flashlight and the tingling of a hangover._

_ "Dammit Dean," he said to the stars. "Where the hell are you?" It was only a stroke of luck that caused John to turn his head at the exact angle so that something flashed in the corner of his eye: moonlight bouncing off metal. The metal belonged to a sleek black muscle of a car, hidden well behind a wild outcropping of bushes that looked like they'd been planted for the exact purpose as to disguise a car._

_ "Baby," John said, slapping the hood affectionately. "It's good to see you." The car was immaculate as always and when he jimmied open the lock on the trunk, he found one of his machetes and his son's favorite pistol missing. And Dean._

_ He left the car and wandered in the direction her hood was facing, hoping he wasn't going in the opposite direction of his son. Fifteen minutes later, he was rewarded by the appearance of a shack of a house looming up suddenly, as if it had sprung from the creases of the earth like one of those children's pop-up storybooks. Armed with his own knife and gun, John crept around the open front door and over the rotted threshold._

_ The smell hit him first. He knew what is was: dead, decaying, flies-in-the-air flesh. He's been around it enough to know without looking that the owners of this house were long gone. Sure enough, the mostly eaten corpses of what he thought might be a man and wife were neatly displayed on the – also rotting – kitchen table._

_ "Poor bastards," John said and moved on. "Dean!" he called out in a whisper, begging his ears to pick up any strain of sound. _

_ Nothing._

_ John stalked through the house like a lion on a hunt but found nothing. The ground floor was empty of everything except the dead and the furniture, and the upstairs was empty except for a family of bats and multiple cockroaches that fled from the beam of light swaying in front of John even as he backed away. He hated cockroaches._

_ He was about to leave the house altogether when he noticed a cellar door partially opened outside around back. John didn't hesitate because it was in the job description that Hunters weren't afraid of anything, dark, dank basements being a colorful take on "anything."_

_The smell down there was different. It was rust and metal and made saliva rush to John's mouth at the scent because it was familiar and it was fresh._

_ It was a whole fucking lot of blood._

_ The walls were painted with it, in great streaks of dark crimson and bright ruby, the shades overlapping each other to create the most morbid of murals. Later, when John got to the hospital and was sitting in that first waiting room, he would notice blood splattered on his shoes and caked into the soles. It was, John thought, the very opening scene of a new kind of movie: the one where the stupid Hunter goes searching for his stupid son and ends up strewn about a basement made of blood._

_ On first instinct, he would have guessed vampires, but he knew Dean was hunting a Rakshasa and there, in the far left corner was the dead creature, mouth opened in a leer, mocking John even in death. It's lips were, of course, red. This wasn't what John saw though; he was too busy staring at the body next to the creature because as much familiarity ran through him at the stench of blood, he _ached _with it when he recognized the form of his eldest son._

_ Somehow John got from one end of the room to the other where he kneeled next to the fallen: one monster, one man. For a few seconds, he could say nothing, do nothing, except stare and try to breathe through numb lips._

_ "Dean," he said and that first word was a cry, an expelling of anguish that would flavor the next weeks of his life. "Dean! Son!" He could hardly see the boy – not a man anymore, just a boy – beneath the copious slickness that coated him and in no time, John's hands then wrists then arms up to his elbows were covered in it. "Dean," he said harshly. "If you die, I'll never forgive you." It was those words that John was most ashamed of as he sat keeping vigil over his son in the hospital, but it might have also been those same words that caused Dean to eject a hitched breath, then two, then three. John was watching intently but so sure that his son was gone that he almost missed the subtle movements of life; he snatched the boy to his chest despite the obvious injuries, only gripping tighter when Dean let out an agonized moan._

_ "Dad?"_

_ The voice was a trace of a whisper near his ear and Dean's breath was cool on John's skin._

_ "It's okay, kiddo," the Hunter said and once more, strength entered him as there was now a job to fulfill, a duty to perform. "I'm gonna get you fixed up." More uneven breathing as John decided what to do and then a stuttered breath,_

_ "S-sam."_

_ "Sam's not here," John said mechanically, taking off his own two shirts and pressing them into Dean's wounds. John had seen more than his fair share of injuries but the severity of the ones his son possessed chilled him right down to his blood-drenched socks. Dean stopped talking when his father hoisted him in his arms, carrying him like an infant up out of the cellar and laying him on the ground to be examined more thoroughly. Finally the goddamn stars were good for something. _

_ "You killed it," John told Dean, prying his son's hands away from his stomach where the worst of damage was more than evident. "You killed the bastard. Good for you, Dean."_

_ "Is," Dean pulled in a shallow breath, "Sammy…okay?"_

_ "Of course," John said, wishing he had thought to bring a first-aid kit. Why hadn't he anyway? "Sam's fine. He's waiting for you." The horror movie of the night was complete when Dean's blue-tinged lips curled up into a ghost of a smile, exposing teeth the wrong color: they were just as red as the rest of him. _

_ "Good," he sighed out and closed his eyes. No amount of yelling or slapping or ordering from John could persuade Dean to open them again and John carried his unconscious son to the Impala, feeling more like he was placing him in the bed of his coffin than the vehicle of his salvation. _

_ "Dad?" Dean lips moved even as his eyes stayed closed._

_ "Yeah?"_

_ "Thanks…for coming."_

_ John cried all the way to the hospital. _

xxx

Sam and Jess hung back a few steps in the parking lot of the restaurant, her hand snagging his to pull him closer to her.

"Sam," she said in a low voice, craning her neck up to meet his eyes even as she bumped her hips into his. Jess loved the feeling of her boyfriend under her, how strong and sturdy he felt, how reassuring his mere presence was. "Try to loosen up a bit, okay?"

"I'm fine," he said but the corner of his lips turned up as she shook her head at him, calling his bluff before the words were all the way out of his mouth. "What?" he said.

"I know you," she said. "And you're upset with him. I thought you guys were doing better? That's what you said last night." Sam rolled his eyes.

"I don't know if I said it exactly like that." Jess huffed out a breath that stirred the blonde wisps framing her face and Sam tenderly brushed them away, loving how smooth her skin felt under the pad of his thumb. Sitting up in that hospital room where everything was on the line, it was easy to forget how good Sam had it back in California. How wonderful and easy his life had been the last few years and much of it thanks to the woman standing in front of him.

"Sam."

"I know," he whispered, leaning his forehead against Jess's for a brief moment, allowing himself to deflate. "Sorry. He just…he makes me upset all the time. I can't help it."

"Let's just have a nice lunch today. We'll focus on the next hour or so and then go from there." The look she was giving him was breaking his heart because it was full of faith and adoration and built on the fact they had spent the two and a half years giving everything they had to each other. There was really only one thing Sam could say to the girl who had taken his heart and made it her own.

"Okay."

xxx

They kept the conversation light over a lunch that consisted of everyone picking at their meals: John because he was still on edge from the car ride, Sam because he was worrying about Dean, and Jess because she was worrying about Sam. However uneasy their stomachs were, all three made a conscious effort to get along and it seemed to work, with appetizers then the entrees arriving without any awkward pauses.

John surprised Sam by keeping the conversation going and asking Jess all sorts of questions about herself and school and California.

"I know Sam's pre-Law," John said, all but nibbling at the end of a french fry. "But what about you?"

"I'm working on getting my masters in social work," Jess said. "I'm in a five-year program so it will take a while but it should be worth it." John had the decency to look impressed, Sam thought, and maybe he was. It's not like he'd ever amounted to anything special, being a mechanic and than a self-proclaimed monster-killer.

"Why social work?" Jess glanced at Sam before answering.

"Well, both Sam and I came from unconventional childhoods," she said, looking uncomfortable for the first time since lunch began. "I was English my first semester but then we got to talking and I realized I wanted to help kids that don't have a normal upbringing. If maybe there had been someone to help us – me – adjust…" she shrugged. "I don't know, I might have turned out differently, had better opportunities." The silence that followed was enough to keep even their friendly waitress away as everyone at the table was clearly done with their meal. Jess dropped her gaze to her lap, wishing she had kept her mouth shut and knowing she must have crossed the line with her last comment. She personally had nothing against John Winchester. He seemed like a nice enough guy, a bit rough around the edges but then again, it's not like they'd met in the best of circumstances and she was sure if her son was unconscious in the Intensive Care Unit, she'd be a bit of a wreck too. The man carried a sadness around with him; it was worn into his personality in deep grooves, as if carved there with a tool. Her first instinct was to feel sorry for him.

But all it took was a glance to her left, a cursory scan of the man sitting next to her and all that emotion turned to doubt. Sam had been so adamant for so long about hating his father and the way he grew up that it just became second nature for Jess to resent it too. The fact that her boyfriend, the man she loved more than anyone in the world, had been raised by his older brother because John had been too busy out drinking and gambling and God knows whatever else. Jess was a product of the country's foster care system, shuffled to house to house until she was fifteen where – God bless them – she'd found a decent home with a supportive couple. Still, she knew the effects of being ignored, had helped raise enough little kids herself to know that older siblings could never completely fill in the role of parent, not really.

"We've been gone two hours," Sam said, checking his phone. "We should get back to the hospital."

"Yeah," John agreed, looking anywhere but his son. "Let me just go pay up front and we'll leave."

"I'm so sorry," Jessica said once he was out of earshot. "I don't know what happened. He asked and then it just came out and ugh, Sam…" she half-sighed, half-groaned, biting her lip. "I've ruined any chance of him liking me, haven't I?"

"Nah," Sam said, standing. "He probably didn't like you from the beginning. You know, since you're dating me and all." Jess looked mortified and he had to grin, pressing his lips to her forehead. "Jess, I'm glad you said it; someone has got to stand up to him. He'll probably like you for it, I bet, twisted son of a bitch that he is."

Sure enough, after they had driven back to the hotel, John did the unexpected and pulled Jess in for a quick hug, stunning even Sam who looked embarrassed by his father's display of emotion.

"Thanks for coming," John said gruffly. "I'm, uh, I'm glad I got to meet Sam's girl. You guys are something special." He didn't give either of them a chance to react before he turned to his son and said, "I'm gonna run up to the room for ten minutes. I'll meet you here after and we'll go back?"

"Sure," Sam said, watching in disbelief as John left them alone.

"Wow," Jess said. "That was…not what I thought would happen."

"Me neither," mumbled Sam. He leaned against the trunk of the Impala, feeling the car shift and sink just a bit under his weight as Jess tilted toward him, going straight for his lips.

"Mmm," he whispered a moment later without moving away. "You taste good."

"Must have been the pizza," she murmured and laughed as he nuzzled her neck, letting himself get lost in the scent of her strawberry shampoo.

"Don't go," he said. "Stay here with me."

"I wish," she said softly. "I'm sorry I can't be here. I'll try to come back soon, okay?"

"Won't be soon enough," Sam said, kissing her again. Jess wanted to lose herself in the feeling of Sam pressed against her, wanted to be oblivious for just five minutes but they didn't have a lot of time and there was something she had wanted to say since talking to Angie earlier. Sam gave a disappointed groan as she pulled away, stepping back but not far enough away that Sam's hands weren't still hooked around her waist.

"Sam, there's not really an easy way to bring this up…" she started, staring right into those trusting hazel eyes. "But I was talking to Dean's nurse earlier." She felt it, felt Sam tense up and shut down, his hands dropping from her as if burned, standing up straight so that he stood over her by a good five or six inches.

"Jess." His voice was laced with warning, a tight _be careful what you say_ woven into his tone. "Don't."

"Sam," she said, her own words a plead. "Please just be smart about this. If he doesn't make it-," she forced herself to keep going despite his murderous gaze, "I'm worried you're going to lose it if you're not prepared."

"You sound like my father," he spat, pushing off the car and stalking a few feet away before turning back toward her. "Why does everyone think he's going to die?"

"I don't," she said quickly. "God, I want him to pull through so badly, I really do. Everyone does." Her voice quieted but didn't lose any of it's firmness. "But I want you to be realistic about chances of recovery." Sam stared hard at her for a second as if seeing right through her and then he seemed to wilt against the backdrop of the concrete hospital building.

"What did they tell you?" Sam asked.

"Nothing new," she said, taking a step toward him and he allowed her to take both his hands in hers. "Just to be ready for anything."

"I'm ready," Sam said a minute later. "I know you guys don't think so, but I am."

"Okay," she said. "That's all."

"I just-" Sam continued as if she hadn't spoken. "I can't give him up, Jess. Dean's part of me and seeing him lying there, it's like half of me is in that bed. That doesn't make sense to you, does it?" It didn't but Jess didn't say so. Sam kept talking, "I know what his chances are, I've been listening to every word the doctor says. But I have to believe he's going to wake up and be okay because if he doesn't make it…" Sam drew in a shuddering breath and closed his eyes for a moment before gazing at her with an absolutely crushed expression. "I don't think I can do it. I don't think I can live without him."

There was nothing Jess could say and so she just held him, held Sam in her arms and tried to give him as much support as she could in their remaining minutes together. John was going to walk out the hotel door anytime now and she was going to get in her car and drive back to Stanford, leaving her broken boyfriend behind. There wasn't much she could do but in that moment, Jess held on tight and let herself believe she didn't ever have to let go.

xxx

John and Sam took their time getting back to the ICU, walking a few feet away from each other but keeping the same pace.

"Thanks," Sam said out of nowhere, looking at John with a hint of new appreciation. After last night and now that John had met and accepted his girlfriend, Sam's resentment toward his father was dissipating, the furious anger that once bridled Sam had fallen away. John accepting Jess kind of felt like he was telling Sam it was okay he left for Stanford, that he was forgiven for that night three years ago.

"She really is great," John mused in the elevator and Sam grinned despite himself.

"I know."

"You think she's the one?" John asked casually and Sam threw his father a startled look and then shrugged.

"Maybe. I'm only twenty, Dad."

"I know," John said, laughing at Sam's shocked expression. "I'm not telling you to get down on one knee; I was just asking."

"I think if we're still together by the time we graduate…" Sam trailed off, frowning as they approached the usually silent entrance of the ICU. "What's that noise?" A loud shrieking was coming from the other side of the doors and more commotion joined the fray: multiple voices shouting and feet flying over the floor. They both pushed through the door at once, colliding into each other as they dashed into the ward. Sam froze at the sight before them while John had the opposite reaction; the hunter continued forward, stumbling as if wading through a powerful river. The curtain to Dean's area was ripped back and there were no less than four nurses around him, while each of the machines around him were screeching out protests. Sam could see through the tangle of scrubs and arms and moving bodies that Dean was moving around the bed wildly.

The doors opened again and Dr. Cantwell stormed in, swerving around the still-frozen Sam and rushing past John to Dean's beside.

"What's going on?" he barked, the noise slapping into John's ears far louder than any of the distressed machines. He couldn't hear the response but it didn't matter because by then he was as close to the foot of the bed as he could get and John could see for himself what was wrong.

Dean was awake, but thrashing around much more than John had seen before. His blankets were thrown off and his legs flailed in jerky movements, kicking out at random. Dean's shoulders were being held down by two of the nurses but he was straining against them, the muscles in his neck straining as his head tilted forward, eyes wide and searching, nostrils flared. He was garbling out noises, none of which sounded like real words. Dean's good hand gripped the rail of his bed so hard that his knuckles were white, highlighting the darkness gathered under his fingernails.

It was the blood that disturbed John the most. Like when he had found his son in the desert, a good amount of it covered his Dean's face, dripping from scarlet lips down his chin and smearing at his throat, reminding John of the horror of the entire situation. The bandages on his torso had been shredded by aggravated fingers, revealing the deep grooves the creature he had made, blood pooling and staining wherever it touched, as if it were a poison leeching from his son.

Angie hurried up to them – Sam had joined his father – and put her hands forward, pushing them backwards, away from Dean.

"I'm sorry but you can't be here right now." Gone was the gentle, mothering woman and in her place was a professional, specially trained nurse who wasn't about to take crap from anybody.

"What…" Sam said, straining to see over her head, unable to piece together a complete sentence.

"I need to go back to Dean," she told them. "Stay put or we'll throw you out." It was an order, something that Sam knew how to take and he walked away with his hands clasped behind his head, very pointedly not looking back when he heard Dr. Cantwell give a sharp shout.

"_Dean!_"

John Winchester, however, did not know how to take orders, hadn't taken one since the day his house and life turned to ash. He only gaped at Angie's retreating form, mouth open like a dying fish as she pulled the curtain back into place, effectively letting a flimsy piece of fabric barricade John from his first born.

"Dad?" Sam was at his shoulder again, hands now at his side, clenching and unclenching into fists. "If it was his heart, he wouldn't been moving. Right? It's not his heart, right?"

John didn't know. He'd once witnessed a man having a full-blown seizure while going into cardiac arrest. And to be honest, that ten-second glance of Dean had looked and felt terribly familiar. He couldn't shake the image of his son writhing under a stranger's hands, painted with blood and fright.

Sam backed away when he realized his father wasn't going to answer him.

* * *

**A/N: **Lots going on in this chapter…thoughts?


	13. Chapter 13

Something had changed when Dean next become aware. He could _feel _more, more than just the agonizing pain and time slipping by him as he lay helpless. He still hurt – God, did he hurt – but there, in the back corner of his semi-functioning mind was an inkling that maybe he could do something about it. It took him a long time to sort through things and figure out that while his right arm was frozen from shoulder to fingertip, his left hand wasn't. Similarly, his legs weren't paralyzed, just weak and leaded down with a weight indiscernible to him in this dark.

It was still dark. Impenetrable blackness surrounded him as much as before but instead of heavy and silent and thick with hopelessness, the air around Dean was moving, vibrating with energy and telling him that something more lay just beyond his reach. Still no weapon but as he flexed those five working fingers, it was the urge to fight that spurred him forward, even as the pain become more obvious, racking his body with each shuddering breath.

But hey, he was breathing, and after the last – well, he wasn't sure how long it had been – but after putting up with the pain-creature for this long, he was rather proud of himself for not dying. It was odd that he became aware of the prickling pain in his right arm when the rest of him was so tortuously on fire, but it was bothering him the way a fly would bother an elephant and he managed to cross his working arm over his charred body and pluck at the annoyance with sensitive fingertips. His digits were slow to react and fumbled with what seemed to be plastic wedged into his skin but Dean Winchester wasn't a quitter, and it was with great satisfaction that he detached the plastic from his arm.

He'd done this all in the dark, stuck in his cave. He hadn't expected the pain to multiple so rapidly when he set to work on the restraints wrapped around his torso, the ones that felt like they were put in place to crush his ribs and backbone and everything in between. As weak as they were, his legs kicked out as he gritted his teeth, tearing at whatever it was until he reached warm – _hot _– flesh.

And then Dean made his fatal mistake.

All this life, people had been telling him to be quiet. Teachers in school insisting that he use his indoor voice, his grandmother telling him not to shout in the house, his father demanding that he keep his goddamn mouth shut for once in his life. It was his inability to follow the rule that brought attention to himself, because as Dean's fingers scraped across his freed body, an explosion of pain almost knocked him unconscious and Dean _howled_. The noise climbed out of his ruined lungs with a fierceness that penetrated his own deaf ears, building in volume until he was out of breath, but by then something was on top of him, pressing him back to the ground.

"Get off!" he shouted except that the words didn't translate from brain to tongue and Dean heard himself making nondescript noises, adding to the growing din that clashed against his ears. The pain-creature was back and seemed to be everywhere at once, gripping Dean by the shoulders, the legs, grinding into his chest so that each breath the Hunter took in felt more precious than the last.

_This bastard is going to kill me_, he thought, thrusting his working limbs in every direction he could manage, keeping his hold on consciousness only out of sheer will power. The noises coming from his throat turned into just one that he repeated over and over, hoping that help was out there somewhere, just waiting for Dean to call it's name.

_Sam._

Dean needed his brother.

xxx

John and Sam waited twenty minutes before a ripple shifted the curtain and Angie ducked out, wearing latex gloves spotted with – John's stomach lurched – bright red blood.

"Sam?" she called softly because Sam was thirty feet away from her, staring sightlessly at a painting of a ship floating in the middle of a nameless ocean. He flinched at the sound of his name.

"What's wrong?" he asked and Angie gave them both such a look of sympathy, John thought that Dean must have died right there in front of them, less than fifty feet away. Another nurse left Dean's room, walking past them without a word, going back to her station.

"Dr. Cantwell can explain everything soon but for right now, I'd like Sam to come with me."

"Where?" Sam asked just as John said,

"Why?"

"We think Dean might be asking for him and are hoping it will calm him down."

Sam thought it might have been the best worst news he'd ever heard. He tilted his head toward John, looking for permission, as if he were six years old again asking for a cookie before bedtime. And who was John to deny either of his sons what they wanted? So he nodded and even gave Sam a nudge when he hesitated and then the boy and the nurse disappeared.

The scene had quieted some by the time Sam entered and he walked in to find Dr. Cantwell playing with the machines and the remaining nurses taking notes beside him. Dean was reduced to a fidgeting mess: one foot striking out here and there, the muscles in his arms spazzing as his good left hand pulled at fistfuls of blankets. He let out a low sound and heaved himself up an inch or two before Angie was back at his head, running her fingers through sweaty clumps of hair, shhing him quietly.

"Smmm."

Sam felt his heart shift, felt Dean reach down inside him and _tug, _relighting whatever had been extinguished in the last three years.

"Smmm." It came again, more insistently this time.

"He's right here, honey. You want Sam, don't you? I brought him and he's right here." Angie's voice was low and soothing with a sing-song quality to it and she beckoned Sam over. He stepped forward and once he was in Dean's range of vision, his brother's body moved again, lifting itself in a despite attempt to get closer to the thing it wanted most.

"Oh no," Angie said. "You're not going anywhere. Here," she said to Sam. "Take my place and try to get him quiet."

"Hey, Dean," Sam whispered and the frustrated green eyes finally filtered in a touch of relief. Sam grabbed at the hand fisting the blanket and let it paw at his fingers for a moment. That's when Sam noticed the soft leather cuff bound around his brother's thin wrist, connecting back to the rail of the bed and preventing Dean from moving his hand more than six or so inches in any direction.

"What is this?" Sam said, glancing up at Dr. Cantwell for answers and noticing at the same time the matching restraints around Dean's ankles. The sight made Sam want to vomit and he had to breathe deeply through his nose to regain some control.

"They're not hurting him," Angie answered quietly. "It's for his own safety." Dr. Cantwell pointed to Dean's right arm and Sam saw crimson lines race from his brother's wrist to elbow, ending at the crease in his arm where the IV's sat, the skin around them already bruised.

"He managed to pull them out," Dr. Cantwell explained. "As well as open up his dressings. That's why we have him restrained for now."

Sam couldn't talk, couldn't quite wrap his head around the idea of anything holding his brother down against his will, not when he so clearly wanted to be free. It went against all of Sam's training, his most innate_ instinct_ to protect Dean. He swallowed hard as Dean's eyes rolled over to him again.

"S'm."

"You're okay," he told Dean automatically, telling his brother a lie he could never buy into. "You're fine. I promise."

Except Dean wasn't fine. He was bloody and trembling and chained up like an animal.

"Another half-dose?" he heard Angie ask and felt more than heard Dr. Cantwell's responding hesitation before he said,

"I can't believe he's awake on this much. We better wait and see if he fades out on his own. For now, let's stitch him up."

"Smmm," Dean mumbled and Sam refocused his attention once more.

"Right here," Sam said. "I'm not going anywhere."

"M'er." That was a new one and Sam bent lower to his brother's barely moving lips, ignoring the smell of the fresh blood that covered his brother's face, making him seem even paler than usual. This vision of Dean was so different than the one Sam carried with him and it broke Sam's heart, knowing that someone he perceived as invincible could in fact be beaten. The worst part, Sam thought at that moment, was that it was just Dean now. It was his brother's own body fighting against itself.

"What did you say?" Sam asked, trying to keep his voice from shaking. Dean fumbled with his tongue, bent on making it form the right word.

"M'ster."

"Did you just say monster?" Sam felt Angie give him a look but Dean wasn't saying anything else; he looked content enough that Sam had understood him. Instead, he just made a rumbling noise. "Dean," Sam said firmly, holding onto his brother's gaze and trying to pass as much sincerity as he could between them. "There is no monster here. You're safe."

John was in the room now, ushered in by one of the strange nurses and he watched with little expression as Angie removed the few remaining bandages. It was easy to see where the shallowest of cuts were healing but in his agitation, Dean had ripped open a number of stitches and those wounds were again bleeding freely.

Dean grunted but didn't move as the anesthetic needle pierced his skin and then again when Dr. Cantwell started pulling the needle in and out of skin, closing up the injuries for a second time.

"Silly boy," Angie said, in between handing the doctor supplies. "So much mess. Probably got bored or something. You gotta stop causing so much trouble, handsome." The rest of them were silent, listening only to the soft murmurings of the nurse. Dean blinked sleepily at Sam, who attempted a smile back when his brother made a clicking noise with his tongue, followed by a whine.

"Quite the talker, huh?" Dr. Cantwell said as he looped more thread through Dean's stomach. As if in answer, Dean clicked his tongue again and Dr. Cantwell allowed a smile.

"He was a chatterbox as a child," John said quietly. "I used to think he talked just to hear his own voice, didn't matter what he was saying." There wasn't much John recognized in the child lying on the bed to the one that lived in his memory. The energy, the constant laughter, the zest for life was gone from this Dean in front of him; it was only those green eyes that held any hint of the past as they slowly blinked open and shut, reassuring John that he did in fact remember who his son used to be.

xxx

_"Daddy, why does the sun always follow the car?" Five-year-old Dean wanted to know. He was staring straight out the Impala's window, craning his neck to watch the yellow ball trailing them. _

_ "It doesn't," John said tiredly. They were somewhere in Wisconsin and it had been a long day already with getting both boys up and ready on the road with as little fuss as possible. Which, to be honest, was always a lot of fuss. While Dean had been helping pack up the room, Sam had somehow gotten the door to the bathroom open and dropped both his shoes in the toilet, giving his father a devil smile as John went through an entire roll of toilet paper cleaning them off. Then they had gotten fifteen minutes down the road with Sam screaming his lungs out when Dean announced they had forgotten the younger boy's stuffed frog that he carried with them everywhere and it was fifteen more minutes of hysterics from the toddler until the stupid thing was back in the car with them. By the time they got on the highway, it was late morning._

_ Every day was a long day. _

_ "Yes, it does," Dean said, sliding his feet up and down the back of the passenger seat. John never let him wear shoes in the car; Dean must have been one of the most hyperactive kids ever and that meant his legs often struck out at the Impala in boredom. There was no way John was letting his son's light up Batman sneakers tear a hole in the car's interior. _

_ "I'll explain it when you're older," John settled on because he knew he couldn't explain it well enough for Dean to stop asking more questions. "How's Sam?" he asked instead, knowing it would be more than enough to divert Dean's attention._

_ "He's looking at a book," Dean reported as the eighteen-month-old nibbled at the corner of the cardboard pages. "Actually, he's eating it. No, Sammy," he instructed, taking the book away. "Books are not food." Sam made grabbing motions with his fat hands, reaching out from his carseat in vain._

_ "Mine!" he announced in a whine._

_ "Give him some cereal," John said but Dean was already rummaging through the backpack John used as a diaper bag._

_ "Dad," he asked a minute later, "how come the lady at the motel didn't make you pay?"_

_ "What are you talking about?" John said, peering into the rearview mirror to find Dean handing Sam Cheerios one by one as the toddler shoved them in his mouth as fast as he could. Then he glanced at the clock on the dash and sighed inwardly; it was lunchtime even though it felt like they had just gotten on the road. But Sam was hungry and Dean was starting to squirm and look to John for entertainment. That meant it was time to stop._

_ "The lady said, 'you keep this' and handed you back your money. Why?"_

_ "You're supposed to be watching your brother while I pay, not spying on me." Dean was undeterred by his father's cross tone._

_ "I was doing both. Sam was holding my hand."_

_ "Well," John said, spying a sign for an exit with food. "That lady and I had an adult conversation while you were asleep and we decided it was better to not pay. She was being friendly."_

_ "Is that why you were gone when I woke up?"_

_ "What?"_

_ "I woke up 'cause I was thirsty but you weren't there."_

_ "Uh, yes," John said, mentally kicking himself. He hadn't meant for the boys to find out he had left them alone in a strange room. "Sorry, kiddo. I didn't know you would wake up. I shouldn't have left." Dean shrugged._

_ "I didn't care. I knew you'd come back. So I got water from the sink and checked on Sammy like you taught me."_

_ John's eldest son had grown up so much in the last year; he was almost unrecognizable. John didn't know if Mary would be impressed or horrified at the things the almost-six-year-old handled on a daily basis. She'd probably be mad at John, no doubt. But he was doing the best he could without her and Dean seemed to be dealing with the new lifestyle just fine. The kid had gone quiet for a time after the fire and John had been worried for a while as the curious little boy usually couldn't be shut up, but then the three month mark rolled around and Sam started making sounds that resembled words and Dean started talking again, first to his brother and then to everyone._

_ "'Mo!" he heard the toddler insist._

_ "More," Dean said. "It's more."_

_ "'Mo!"_

_ "Close enough," Dean said and handed his brother more cereal. He was fascinated by Sam learning to speak, and had taken to teaching him new words to pass the time in the Impala._

_ "Where are we going?" he said a minute later._

_ "To get lunch. Are you hungry?"_

_ "Yeah. But where are we going after that? Another motel?"_

_ "Probably," John said and heard Dean give an uncharacteristically heavy sigh. "We're going to go meet a man named Bobby Singer."_

_ "Does he sing good?" Dean asked, perking up at the thought. Even at a young age, he had a strong appreciation for music, probably because he'd been listening to John and Mary's favorite cassettes since he was born. _

_ "I don't think so, kiddo. That's just his name. He does what I do." Not that the five-year-old knew what John was up to these days. For the first six months, John had been an absolute mess, barely able to leave his rented apartment, unable to eat or sleep. His mother had looked after the boys a great deal until the day he gathered his resolve, and collected his children for the road. His mother hadn't exactly been happy with that._

_ "Where are you going?" she has asked as Dean raced around his grandmother's home, gathering their belongings as fast as he could._

_ "I don't know yet," John said truthfully, shifting Sam from one arm to the other as the baby grabbed at his hair gleefully. "Probably West but I'm not sure. I just know I have to leave Kansas. I can't stay here anymore."_

_ "And you think it's wise to bring the children with you? What in the world are you going to do with them?"_

_ John bristled at her implication; it was true that even before the fire he hadn't been the greatest parent – that was Mary's role, not his – but he couldn't imagine leaving the boys behind. They were all he had left. Besides, John already had his suspicions about the fire and possible foul play and he didn't want anyone to come after the boys while he wasn't around._

_ "They'll be fine," he said. "They need a change of pace." His mother shook her head._

_ "No. What they need is stability. That baby needs a routine and Dean…he could go to school soon. He's so bright, John. So curious."_

_ "I need them, Mom," John said, voice breaking over her name. "And I can't stay here." Her expression softened and her eyes grew sad._

_ "I'll miss them," she said reaching out one last time for Sam._

_ "We'll visit," John lied and she nodded. "Dean! It's time to go, kiddo!"_

Time to start the beginning of your new life.

_ "So Bobby kills the bad guys?" Dean asked as they pulled of the exit ramp._

_ "Yes," John said. "Put your shoes on, we're stopping to eat."_

_ Ten minutes later and they were finally seated at a booth, John and Dean each on one bench with Sam sitting in a high chair at the end of the table. Dean was up on his knees, bent over the table as he scribbled on his placemat with crayons brought by the waitress. John was looking over the menu with disinterest._

_ Tomorrow was the first anniversary of Mary's death and his stomach wasn't exactly in the mood for greasy diner food. To make matters worse, his mother had offered to take the boys for a bit when he phoned her a couple days ago. He'd politely but firmly turned her down and she had hung up the phone with a not-so-subtle warning for him not to drink too much and to "think of the children."_

_ "'ean!" Sam whined, not happy with the fact his brother was ignoring him._

_ "You're too little for crayons," Dean explained. "You'd break them and these aren't ours."_

_ "Mine," Sam said, managing to snag a crayon by leaning over the side of his high chair. Dean reached over and pulled it from his grasp but held it in front of his brother like a piece of candy._

_ "Can you say green, Sam?"_

_ "'ean!"_

_ "No, green. Greeeeen."_

_ "Gee!"_

_ "Sam's gonna be really smart," Dean said as he handed Sam a bite of roll from the basket on the table._

_ "Mhm," John said._

_ "He can say lots of words. Did I talk when I was a baby?"_

_ "Haven't stopped since," muttered John then said louder, "Yes, Dean. You talked much more than Sam does."_

_ "Why?" John shrugged, closing the menu._

_ "People are different. They grow up differently." Dean stared at his father for another moment and was about to open his mouth again when their waitress appeared._

_ "What can I get you folks?"_

_ "A hamburger," Dean said happily. "And Sam likes grilled cheese."_

_ "And I'll get a burger too," John said, watching Dean beam at him from across the table. It was almost disturbing how much the kid tried to act like him; John had to wonder if that was normal behavior. Dean went back to coloring and John kept Sam entertained until the food arrived. Dean watched his father pull apart the sandwich for Sam then take a bite of his own burger._

_ "What's up, kiddo?" John asked, noticing Dean had yet to take a bite of food and was staring at John with a frown._

_ "What happened to your arm?" John had pushed up his sleeves in order to eat and thus revealed an angry purple and black bruised shaped in a ring on his left forearm._

_ "I fell," John said stupidly, not giving the five-year-old enough credit._

_ "Did you get bited?" Dean asked. "'Cause one time Ricky bited me and I had a hurt spot just like that."_

_ "Ricky who?" John said, trying to change Dean's direction of thought yet again._

_ "My friend Ricky."_

_ "You don't have a friend Ricky," John reminded him._

_ "Yeah huh," Dean said, finally putting a french fry in his mouth. "He stayed at the motel too and we were friends but then he bited me so I pushed him down and we were friends again." John had zero recollection of any of this happening; where had he been while Dean was shoving kids to the ground? He was going to have to start keeping a closer eye on his older son; he had a feeling Dean wasn't going to allow himself to be occupied by cartoons and movies for much longer. His mother was right: the little boy was curious and had an overactive imagination that was bound to get him into trouble._

_ "…and Ricky's favorite color is blue like mine and he has a baby sister who is ugly like Sam used to be and he said they even have a dog but I never seed it. Dad, can we get a dog?"_

_ John looked up when the rambling stopped to find Dean watching him expectantly. He had a feeling he'd just missed a question._

_ "What?"_

_ "Can we get a dog? It could be tiny and ride on my lap," Dean suggested hopefully._

_ "No dogs," John said firmly. "Please stop talking and start eating. We have a long way to go tonight."_

_ "Who bited you?" Dean asked again once he'd taken exactly two bites of his hamburger. There was ketchup smeared all over his fingers and John caught them with a napkin just before the kid could wipe them on his shirt._

_ "No one bit me," John said._

_ "I could bite them back," Dean offered. "If you was scared."_

_ "I'm not scared," John said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "And you shouldn't bite people. Ever."_

_ "What if they bited first?"_

_ "Not even then." Dean remained skeptical._

_ "What if me and Sammy were with a bad guy and the bad guy had Sammy and I had to fight him and then I bited him?"_

_ "I suppose you could bite a bad guy," John mused. "But you won't ever have to do that because I would never let a bad guy get you or your brother."_

_ "It's good to be prepared," Dean said, spitting John's own mantra back at him. The Hunter had to smile at the serious look on the little boy's face._

_ "It is," he agreed and satisfied, Dean turned his attention back to his meal and they managed the rest of the meal in relative silence._

xxx

"Don't you dare bite me," Angie said sternly but Dean only blinked as she put one hand on his chin and then pulled a piece of pink-stained gauze out of his mouth and threw it into the trash. "Yeah, I see you," she said fondly as Dean smacked his lips. She ran a clean swab around the inside of his mouth as Sam held his brother's hand. One of his fingers was still tapping against Sam's wrist in an unsteady rhythm.

"There," Angie said, finishing. "You're fine now. Not even bleeding anymore." She set to the task of cleaning the blood off his chin and Sam was more than a little relieved when his brother looked normal again and not like one of the monsters he frequently tracked down.

"Mmm," Dean thrummed, looking for Sam as Angie moved out of his view.

"It's alright," Sam said. "You're fine." As if agreeing, Dean shut his eyes halfway, peering out from under the lashes like a child.

"Sam?" John and Dr. Cantwell were standing at the door, both wearing expressions that were too grim. He hadn't even noticed when they left the room. "Sam, we'd like to talk to you for a minute. Out here." Dean was still staring at him and the last thing Sam wanted to do was leave his brother while he was awake.

"Go on," Angie urged gently, taking the hand Sam held. "I'll sit with him. He'll be asleep in a minute anyway." Sam reluctantly went to go join the other two men, leaning up against the wall and shoving his hands in his pockets.

"What?" he asked sullenly. "What do you want?" John raised an eyebrow at his tone but Dr. Cantwell just started talking.

"We could do this in my office," he said, "but I assume you would rather stay close to Dean."

"Here's fine," Sam agreed. "What's going on?"

"I wanted to brief you on what happened and discuss options. Dean managed to pull out a numerous amount of stitches when he woke. You saw the damage he did to himself. He's still on two types of strong antibiotics so infection shouldn't be a problem but of course we'll keep a close eye on his injuries. He also managed to pull out one of his IV lines, which is where the scratches and bruising came from. That's why we have temporary restraints on his wrists. The blood on his face and neck was only a product of him biting his tongue. No permanent damage was done."

"So what?" Sam said. "He's fine, right? What about his heart?" Dr. Cantwell paused and glanced at John, as if expecting him to join in but the Hunter's expression was carefully blank.

"Like I said, your father and I were just discussing Dean's treatment plan, thinking of that next step to take."

"What next step? I thought you said we just had to wait. You said there wasn't anything you could do," Sam accused. Dr. Cantwell ignored the last part.

"Sam, I want to put your brother in what's called a medically induced coma." Sam's eyes practically bugged out of his head as he pushed himself off the wall in alarm. A coma? That didn't sound like a step forward, it sounded like a death sentence. "It's not as horrible as it sounds," Dr. Cantwell assured him. "It means we would keep him sedated consistently for a long period of time. It would allow his body a chance to heal and he wouldn't have to go through the stress of waking up all the time." Sam still wasn't buying it. All they had been hoping and praying for for a week was that Dean would wake up. Now they wanted to put him to sleep? Sam's jaw clenched at the thought of Dean lost in the dark for what the doctor said was "a long period of time."

"I thought that heavy sedation was supposed to be bad for his heart?" he asked suspiciously. The doctor's lips narrowed into a thin line and when Sam's gaze flickered to his father for a moment, he saw that John wore a similar expression. Sam caught on a few seconds later, horror flooding through him like white-hot heat. "You're kidding, right?" he said, looking back and forth between the two men, sure he had heard wrong. "You want to put him in a coma that might kill him?"

"We've calculated the risks, Dr. Cantwell said quietly, "and it would be just as damaging to Dean's heart and overall state if he were allowed to continue these episodes of consciousness."

"He's trying to wake up!" Sam shouted. "He's trying to get better!"

"Sam." It was the first time John has spoken since the beginning of the discussion. "If you can't keep your voice down, you're going to have to step outside."

"How can you seriously be considering this?" he asked his father, voice lowered but just as incredulous.

"I'm trying to do what's best for Dean."

"By practically euthanizing him?" A shadow of hurt passed over John's face, filled in the dark circles under his eyes, made his lips press together even further.

"Sam," he said a moment later. "When your brother wakes up, he's scared and he's in pain. I know you see that. Do you think he deserves that? To wake up so disoriented that he doesn't know where he is? Doesn't recognize anyone?"

"He said my name," Sam mumbled but the creeping sense of dread filling his veins told him that his father was right. "Can't we just wait one more day?" he begged. "Just in case." John looked at Dr. Cantwell who studied Sam then finally said,

"I can give you until the morning, no longer. I don't want a repeat of what happened this afternoon. But we'll keep him on lower sedation until the morning and then we'll put him under."

Sam nodded, understanding that this was as good a deal as he was going to get.

"You're doing the right thing," the doctor advised. Sam supposed that the words were meant to make him feel better but they didn't. If anything, they increased the bitter taste in his mouth; he was sure this was not the right thing and if it was…well, then it wasn't the first time in his life Sam wanted to be wrong.

* * *

**A/N: **I keep meaning to throw this out there but if you guys are on tumblr, come find me at: thesethingswillchangeus! Drop me a message or something and let me you came from this site and I'll follow you back.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: **Uploading a day early since I only have one chapter for you this week. Also, I'm heading out on vacation with _very_ limited internet but I'm going to try my best to update next week around midweek. I've been working on this story a lot and am excited about where it's going and can't wait to share the rest with you guys! Thanks for all the follows and favorites and reviews, keep 'em coming!

* * *

It was only John who entered back into Dean's room. His son was sleeping and looked completely peaceful. He was covered with blankets again so John couldn't see the leather cuffs he knew were there. It was hard to believe this was the same person who had been half-crazed with pain just an hour ago. Angie was seated next to him and gave John a small smile as he walked up to the bed.

"He just passed out a few minutes ago. It was about time, he was exhausted."

"I wish there was some way to explain this all to him," John said wearily. "It would make things so much easier. I suppose you know what Dr. Cantwell has decided?" Angie nodded and John looked her straight in the eye, his entire face a question as he asked, "Do you think it's the right thing?" Angie gave a small sigh and glanced at the sleeping boy.

"It will be easier for him," she said finally.

"He might not wake up," John said in a whisper, voicing his greatest fear to the woman sitting in front of him.

"It's a difficult decision to make," was the only thing the nurse could offer. She wasn't about to tell John that everything was going to be okay. She'd seen both ends to this scenario and right now, the one Dean was leaning toward was the one that made her dread her jobs some days.

"Sam's really upset. I don't even know where he is, he just stormed off." John visibly blanched as he remembered his son's words. "He said I was as good as killing Dean."

"Oh, John," Angie said, standing. "Sam's just upset. He'll go blow off a little steam and then he'll come back and see what you're doing is right. I know I haven't known you for very long but I do know that you wouldn't do anything to put your sons in intentional danger." Her words felt like a physical sensation, coursing over John like a strip of sandpaper, rubbing at the sensitive areas of his soul. Then she was pulling him into a hug and for a moment, he didn't know how to react and just stood there, frozen. But slowly – as if only guessing at the right movements – he raised his hands and encircled the nurse, letting her warmth cover him like a blanket. He let the embrace linger and pulled away, clearing his throat.

"I've a – I've got a meeting with someone from finances," he said, voice gruff. Angie nodded in understanding but her eyes were filled with a compassion that made the Hunter want to never leave her presence. "I'll be back after," he said and left the room.

Angie watched him go, checked on Dean once more and then also took her leave.

"Hey Meredith," she said to the young brunette manning the nurse's station. "I'm gonna take my break but I'll be back soon."

She made her way down to the cafeteria where she got a cup of coffee and a sandwich, tucking herself into a back table before pulling out her phone. The other end picked up on the second ring.

"Angie, is everything okay? You're an hour late." Even though they had been married for over five years, hearing her husband's voice never failed to calm her and now was no exception. She felt the stress and anxiety from the past few hours dissipate as she picked at the sandwich in front of her.

"I'm sorry. I was on my way out and then things got crazy. We've been short-handed lately so I had to stay."

"As long as you're okay." Angie smiled into the phone.

"I'm fine." She hesitated, wondering how upset he was going to be when she explained what was coming next. "I think I might stay here for the night." The surprise was clear on the other end as her husband answered,

"Why? Your double shift isn't for three more nights."

"I know but there's a patient here and-," she was cut off by her husband sighing.

"Is this the boy you were telling me about?"

"Yes," she said quietly. "Things took a bad turn and his family is really upset."

"It's not your job to be there 24/7."

"I know and I understand that. I really do. But there's something about this kid. He's special and he's fighting so hard." Silence for a long time then,

"Is he gonna make it?" Angie's answer was soft and he thought he detected a small ripple under the words.

"I don't know, I really don't. I want to believe he's got enough strength left in him but he's hurt so badly. And if he goes, his younger brother is going to be destroyed. As far as I can tell, it's only the two boys and the father. They're all each other has."

"You sound like you're getting attached."

"I am," she admitted. "But I can't help it."

"Well," her husband said after a minute. "Savannah and I will be fine. We'll miss you though."

"Give her a big kiss for me," Angie said, smiling at the thought of her toddler.

"Do I get a kiss too?" her husband teased and she was relieved to detect no bitterness or resentment in his voice. He understood how much her job meant to her.

"I'll give you something better than that when I get home," she said, giggling when he gave out a frustrated groan.

"I'll be waiting," he promised and they hung up.

Angie finished her coffee and sandwich, thoughts turning back to Dean Winchester as she made her way back upstairs. It really would break her heart if he didn't make it after everything he'd been through. He'd come so far already it would be a cruel trick to lose him now. She checked back in and then went to work, determined that the kid wouldn't be going anywhere tonight. Not on her watch.

xxx

Sam stalked through the hospital halls with purpose but no destination, anger but nowhere to channel it. His insides felt like they were melting, his head was in danger of exploding as he thought about what morning would bring. He wasn't dumb to any degree; he knew that Dean's chances of survival were waning by the hour. As calm as Sam had been back in the hospital room, seeing Dean like that had freaked him out more than anything so far. His brother awake but not, communicating but not, stuck in between two worlds without a sense of balance. Sure his eyes had been open and Sam's name had been said but his father was right: little recognition had flared in Dean. Sam was looking for any shred of sense in his older brother and he just wasn't finding it. It was as if his brother existed on an entirely different realm than the one Sam did, a realm that couldn't be breached.

Alive but not.

Twice his thumb hovered over Jessica's number but both times he clicked his phone off and stuck it back in his pocket. She wouldn't be home yet and besides, there wasn't anything she could do. She would just worry some more and Sam was doing enough of that for the both of them, probably for the whole damn hospital.

It was the incessant worrying that caused him to run into someone, knocking the smaller figure clean down to the tile floor.

"Oh, god, I'm sorry," Sam said.

"It's okay," said the man on the ground and when he raised his head, Sam's face went red. The man was dressed all in black with a white collar peeking out under his chin: a priest.

Sam just couldn't catch a break.

"I'm sorry," he said again, helping the man stand. He barely came up to Sam's shoulder and his neck craned upwards as he stared at the boy with owlish eyes magnified by a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.

"No harm done…"

"Sam." The priest smiled.

"Well, all is forgiven, Sam."

"Uh, thanks," Sam said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just wasn't paying attention."

"Happens more than you think," the priest said, gesturing around them. "Lots going on." Sam sighed heavily.

"Yeah." The man in black blinked behind those glasses.

"My name is Father Jeffrey. I'm the resident priest here at the hospital."

"You live here?" Sam couldn't imagine a more depressing life, surrounded by death day in and day out, constantly having to comfort those who were grieving or angry or both. If Dean got better, _when _Dean got better, Sam was never stepping foot in another hospital again. Father Jeffrey seemed to sense his incredulity.

"I do. There's an apartment attached to the chapel. It's not very big or fancy but there's only me so it works out quite well. Are you on your way to visit someone?" It was an innocent question – or not so innocent; Sam would realize later anxiety was rolling off him in waves and the priest was doing his job – but at the time it seemed so simple that Sam shook his head. Then started nodding.

"Kind of," he said. "My brother is here."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Father Jeffrey said and the sincerity in his tone almost brought Sam to his knees. "I'll pray for him." Sam wasn't sure why he said what he did next, why he didn't just keep his mouth shut and go on his way.

"Won't do any good," he mumbled, glancing down at the floor because he couldn't take the priest just staring at him like he knew all of Sam's secrets. That wasn't even possible and yet Sam couldn't shake the feeling the man was reading his soul.

"You look like you could use a cup of tea," Father Jeffrey said after a few moments. Sam's head flung up.

"I don't drink tea," he said and Father Jeffrey smiled.

"Then you should start."

xxx

Sam never entered the chapel and for that he was grateful. He wasn't about to start praying to a God that didn't exist. Once upon a time Sam might have believed in angels but in the last week that faith had broken into a million pieces and scattered into a fucking hurricane. Sam Winchester was more like his father than he thought.

Instead, they entered the small apartment through a side door, Sam stooping a bit to get over the threshold. Father Jeffrey immediately went into the kitchen, setting a bright orange tea kettle on the stove before pulling up a chair for himself, motioning Sam to do the same.

"Are you hungry?" he asked. "I'm afraid I don't have much, I need to get to the store soon, but I might have some cheese and crackers in the cabinet."

"No," Sam said. "I just ate but thanks. I don't have much of an appetite anyway." Father Jeffrey nodded as though he knew exactly what Sam was going through but he didn't say anything and didn't seem all that perturbed by the silence that followed. The apartment was outfitted with minimal furnishings but the carpet was soft and clean under Sam's shoes and there was a pleasant aroma floating around, something like vanilla and cinnamon mixed together. It was almost enough to conceal the smell of antiseptic that clung to both men.

"Do you like your job?" Sam asked out of nowhere as Father Jeffrey flipped through his cellphone. It hadn't occurred to him that priests could even have cellphones and watching the man in front of him send a text message was jarring.

"Yes," Father Jeffrey said. He continued at the prompting of Sam's raised eyebrows. "It is more difficult at times than others but I never wish that I hadn't chosen this path."

"Why? What do you get out of it?" The priest tried to conceal his amusement but it leaked out through a quirk of a smile.

"Is that really the question we should ask of ourselves?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" A whistle came from the kitchen and Father Jeffrey excused himself, returning with two cups of steaming tea.

"Let it cool just a minute," he suggested.

"Thanks," Sam said, pulling the mug closer to him and wrapping his long fingers around the base despite the scalding heat. The warmth slid through him, spreading from his hands to the pit of his stomach, finding the hollow spot behind his navel that couldn't be filled.

"To answer your question," Father Jeffrey said, "I don't do the job because of what is in it for me. I do it for the others around me in hopes that I might offer them something."

"God?"

"Comfort. Or peace. Very rarely God." To Sam, comfort and peace might have been as far-fetched as the Heavenly Lord himself.

"Then what's the point?" Sam wanted to know. "If you can't convince them that God is real, what's the point of trying to help people? I mean, isn't that kind of your job?" Father Jeffrey regarded him over steepled fingers.

"Despite what you may think of people in my shoes, God is not the end-all, be-all. For some people he is not the answer, however much I would like him to be. I am not in the business of converting those who do not share the faith, just helping them along in their time of need. It is why I chose work as a chaplain. I wanted to offer healing through prayer to those who had no where else to turn to in times of hardship. They call me, Sam. Or," he said, inclining his head across the table, "They run into me."

"Oh," was all Sam could think of to say. It was not what he had been expecting from someone who slept one plaster wall away from a lifesize depiction of Jesus on the cross. "Can I ask you a question? It might be kind of personal to you."

"If I don't like it, I won't answer," Father Jeffrey assured him.

"Er, okay. Anyway, I wanted to know if you believe in angels." Father Jeffrey sat back in his chair, hugging his cup of tea close to his chest and regarded Sam over the rim of the mug.

"That's a difficult question, even for a priest," he answered. "Can I ask you the question first? If you don't mind."

"No," Sam said bluntly, then hurried to rephrase his answer. "I mean, no I don't believe in angels. Especially now. I just wondered what you thought. There's no proof, right?"

"Proof regarding the messengers of God with fluffy white wings and golden halos? No. Even the Bible is surprisingly vague when it comes to these heavenly creatures. Angels are a curious topic of discussion amongst those in religious fields because they are one of the few subjects of scripture that people – regardless of their faith – choose to invest a good amount of interest in. Men and women of every age, race, culture, are all quite fascinated by the tales of Michael and Lucifer and the others."

"But do you believe in them?" Sam pressed.

"Are you looking for an angel, Sam?" Father Jeffrey asked seriously.

Sam knew there were no such things as angels and God. Maybe there was a Heaven and Hell but if there were, he didn't want to spend a whole lot of time thinking about it because he knew where he was going to end up when he eventually bit it. There was no way a soul as tarnished as his, hands as filthy as his own, was going to a castle made of clouds. He'd been brought up to stare down the horrors of this world with a sawed off double barrel shot gun and had done it without flinching. And never once through all the stakeouts and blood baths and nightmares had Sam come face to face with anything Heavenly. In this world, there wasn't good and evil, there was just evil and those lucky bastards who had the privilege of dying trying to make it so there was less evil in the world.

As darkness was simply the absence of light, good was only the absence of evil.

"No," Sam said. "If an angel could have helped my brother, he would have done it by now. Instead, he's suffering so much that the doctors want to kill him." The priest waited for Sam to continue, ignoring or maybe just absorbing the razor sharp edge to the boy's words. "If my brother Dean is going to die, then I don't understand what the point of all this is. Of sitting here and being alive, of drinking tea with people I don't know, of going to school and pretending everything is okay when clearly it is not. People die every day, thousands of them and both you and I are helpless to change that." He paused, realizing he was rambling but also realizing that it felt good to just talk to a random somebody that didn't know anything about him. Father Jeffrey wasn't judging him on something he had done in the past or the fact he went to Stanford or could throw knives or had a hot girlfriend. He was just…Sam.

"Some people deserve it – they really do. The rapists and the murderers and the abusers and maybe the drug addicts, I don't know. What I do know is that my brother does not. He was like this one bright spot in an otherwise shitty world and now they're saying that his heart is too weak and his insides are shredded and I don't understand why he of all people deserves that." He wasn't crying but his voice had climbed a few octaves in ragged disbelief as his chest closed in on his heart, making it hard to breathe but also freeing him from a weight he'd been carrying.

"And the worst part is there's no one to blame. It really was an accident, as much as an accident like that could happen. I can't even fucking blame anyone. So I just don't see_ what the point is. _Why are we here when God and his so-called angels are just going to keep taking away the people this world needs the most?" He bit his tongue after he noticed how many times he had just sworn in front of a priest and the fact he'd slid his chair out from the table and was leaning on the edge of it as if in a debate when the only move the poor man across from him made was to blink a few times and lick his lips before taking a sip of tea.

"You are angry," Father Jeffrey said quietly. "Because the world is taking back something that is yours."

"Yes!" Sam said – shouted. God, he was angry. Livid, really. "He's mine!" Sam said. "And I want him back. I just want my brother back, that's it. It's not asking for a lot, is it? Not in the grand scheme of things."

"Sam, I am not going to feed you stories about Heaven and God if you don't believe in them. I'm not going to tell you that angels are real or that everything happens for a reason because it doesn't. Painful, senseless things happen all the time, to the good and the bad. But I want you to know that your anger is justified and that feeling this way does not put a mark on you. You are allowed to be as upset as you want because it means you feel love. I cannot tell you Dean is going to be okay anymore than I can fix his heart. He might die, Sam," the priest said bluntly and Sam's eyes widened in more anger. "But," the priest continued. "I promise you that if that happens – whatever happens – life will go on. You will move forward and though it will always hurt, it won't be like this. Life will go on."

"No," Sam whispered, "It won't, it _can't._"

"It will. You might not want it to, you might fight it for a long while, but eventually, time will move again and the wheel will start turning. You will go on just as we are made to do. Because that's all we can ever do. Forward, Sam. Always forward."

_Forward. Always forward. _It would have been great advice ten years ago or five years ago or three years ago. It worked for so much more than life and death. Forward to another hunt, don't look back. Forward to college, don't glance over your shoulder. Forward, Sam, go forward. Instead, all he'd ever done was stare into the past with resentment in his eyes and a chip on his shoulder. It occurred to him just then that as much pain and suffering facing the past caused, it was nothing compared to the unpredictability of the future. Sam thought the need to know was going to kill him these days. All he wanted was some type of reassurance that this wasn't all for nothing, that all this uncertainty and torment was going to add up to something worthwhile in the end.

Sam just wanted to know.


End file.
